Samson's Shield of Shame
by Eureka234
Summary: Raleigh Samson. It only takes a name. Then, the stories start. Monster. Red Templar. Scum. Betrayer to the Order. He has heard every insult more than once, but they used to be different. Once, they were kinder. Those times feel like a lifetime ago now. This is an origin story and connects DA:2 and DA:I Samson together.
1. Ictus - Collision

_Authors notes:_ Of course, I don't own anything, except the OC's.

The title is based off the awesome "Samson" bard song from Dragon Age Inquisition.

I decided to start the story here because there is already an excellent fic existing which depicts a bit more of Samson's life in the Circle - A Templar's Tale by Cerulione. Please let me know what you think, so long as it isn't mindless bashing. I want to improve my writing if possible. Enjoy!

* * *

"Samson!" heaved a shuddering voice, "I thought I'd find you here."

"What is it?" Samson asked, raising his gaze from the floor.

He knew who it was. It wasn't just some moron sprinting across the halls for fun. It was Ser Cullen Rutherford.

Days filled with silence were exhausting, but none like this. Guarding the front doors of the Kirkwall Circle was the job Samson dreaded, although since they rotated on a roster he wasn't exactly in a position to fuss. He preferred watching mages to the walls, and had stood in a stupor like a ghost wondering if the minutes passing were actually what he felt them to be and not hours.

Cullen wiped some sweat off his brow, his gauntlets clunking less as the Templar recovered from his journey. If he had been running something was ought to be wrong. His roommate never ran for anything, not even away from his charges after hours stoically watching them. The closest he'd come to it was jumping out of bed in a panic forgetting he had requested the day free. The memory brought a smile to Samson's lips.

The shadows on the walls were sharper than usual as many of the lanterns had been extinguished. The usual hustle and bustle of feet and chatter had greatly dissipated, so it was a sure sign that the shift was about to turn over. Perhaps freedom was near. It was difficult to tell the time in this blasted Circle, the limited number of clocks aside.

"Knight Commander Meredith wishes to speak to you," Cullen said breathlessly. He looked worried. "I'd try and get there quickly if you know what's good for you. She looks as though she is ready to burn down the library."

Samson was so emotionless from the hours of wordless standing that he barely lifted an eyebrow. "I'm close to doing that myself," he grumbled. "I bet we'll get along like clockwork."

"I've been ordered to take your place until Ser Chandler gets here," Cullen continued, "Last I heard he was taking a quick shower."

"Fine, shower some confetti around if you like," Samson muttered.

As though he'd forgotten how to use them, his feet moved awkwardly as he stepped forward. An inevitability, perhaps, as he'd leaned against a wall for hours. "I'll see you back in our room for a bedtime story."

Cullen chuckled. The two read pages out to each other on occasion, hell, everyone in the Circle were basically forced to take up reading as a hobby. They were not much freer than the mages and what else were they supposed to do outside studying anyhow?

The last person the brunet wanted to speak to was the icy eyed control freak, but he also didn't fancy making her angrier than she already was.

"Hurry up, Samson," Cullen urged, but the warning was an instant too late.

Samson headed toward the Knight Commander Meredith's office, his armour rattling horribly as he crossed the floor. The noise was especially biting at this hour, and each echo added to his exhaustion.

Half in a daze, mostly keeping his eyes pointed toward the ground, it was strange to feel and hear his fist against her door. His stomach was growling loud enough to match it. All details considered, it was odd he could feel anything at all. He certainly wasn't thinking very clearly. When mages or his fellow brothers and sisters had stopped by to chat, his thoughts mostly focused on a particular girl he rarely managed to speak to. The man spent so much time considering the multitude of ways he could attempt to catch her attention it felt as though his heart had been drained of all life.

"Come in, Ser Samson," Meredith said coldly.

Slowly, dreading what would face him on the other side of the door; he pushed it open, only now taking in that he was in trouble. The symbol of the Templars graced his vision first, and then the back of Meredith's big head. From behind, the Knight Commander could be mistaken for many years younger, almost attractive, but the illusion was broken by the sharpness of her tone.

"Take a seat. Don't just stand there and waste my time," she snapped.

Samson hesitated and, peering at her gauntlets in an attempt to avoid meeting her gaze, sat down in the chair in front of her desk. The papers and books were scattered unorganized on it tonight, possibly more than usual.

Like the rest of the Gallows, all but one of the lanterns of the office were out, an indicator to any passers by that she'd prefer to retire to bed.

Meredith Stannard was appointed her position as Knight Commander recently in the grand scheme of the Gallows history, but that didn't mean he had to like her. Respect? Definitely, but there were never warm feelings, only the nagging pull of obligation.

The shame and horror over the previous Knight Commander's hanging was still fresh in Templar's minds. Like a father, there were many of his brothers or sisters who had trouble letting memories go. While Samson was not one of them, he could not deny that his former superior had more likable qualities than who he had to converse with.

Even with no title, Samson swore Meredith didn't trust him. She had a means of radiating suspicion toward people. During her rise to power she always looked like she had a fly up her nose.

It wasn't much different here.

Having to peer up at the Knight Commander made her more threatening. As she turned around to look at him, he saw a wretched old woman trying to desperately conceal her age. The wrinkles underneath her eyes looked far more pronounced in the lantern light, and the too-upright posture radiated a sense of impending doom.

Her nostrils flared.

"What do you wish of me, Knight Commander?" Samson asked. He tried his best to be welcoming, even though he wanted to settle his empty stomach. If this took too long, he doubted there would be left overs in the dining hall.

They locked eyes for a moment and shared the same unnerving, rigid stare. Samson had an inkling of why he was sent here, although he prayed his superior hadn't uncovered the whole truth.

"I've noticed your wrongdoings, young recruit," Meredith said, and she sat down too, "but I suspected I ought to hear your defense before I decide on how to handle you."

This didn't ease his discomfort.

For some reason the word 'handle' disturbed Samson far more than the rest of her accusation, but he concealed surprise with ease. It helped that he was tired. His eyebrows remained equally as slanted, his silver eyes lifeless and his jaw rigid. "You'll have to spell it out for me, Knight Commander."

His superior continued to glare.

To break the silence, he cleared his throat.

"You have crossed an ethical boundary, Samson. I've seen you speaking to Maddox far more times for it to be a mere coincidence. Dual relationships with mages are not recommended in the Circle. Explain yourself."

Damn, so Meredith did know. Not all of it, but enough. Samson knew exactly why he had done it but he did not intend to make the truth known. Not yet. Not while there was a chance of slithering out of the conversation. He had reminded himself over and over why he entered the sensitive ethical dilemma and now he had a chance to make those thoughts clear.

"Maddox is in close contact with another Templar, Meredith." Samson effortlessly recited his planned lie. "I thought so long as I kept a tab on their letters I could make sure my colleague Phillipa did not cross a line, ma'am."

"I see." Meredith crossed her arms. "At least you are honest, unlike so many of the other clods. Are you claiming you know the contents of their exchange? Is that what you're implying?"

No. Samson had promised Maddox that he wouldn't read the letters, so he didn't. He vowed to do exactly as he'd been asked for the purpose of making the lives of two people more meaningful, so he dedicated himself to the cause, but this couldn't be known, not ever. The two were lovers of a sickeningly sweet kind, yet Samson learned to enjoy it. Nothing ever interesting happened at the Gallows. The ordeal was a reminder that good did occur to nice people in unexpected places.

"Yes, Meredith," the man said, praying his thinly veiled lie was enough that the Knight Commander wouldn't ask more questions.

"Your stance is admirable," Meredith admitted. For a brief microsecond Samson thought he was free. "However, I cannot accept your version of events. You still crossed a line that you should have never approached. Do you know why it is drawn so boldly, young man?"

_Maker save me..._ Samson desperately searched his memory for the contents of his ethics textbook. It was the really boring one; the pages of drivel Cullen summarized every couple of chapters, an attempt to remind Samson of what he was getting himself into. "If we befriend the mages then we risk experiencing impaired judgement."

The Knight Commander seemed to be permanently irritated. "It is not quite so elementary," she said harshly, "if your judgement is hindered the risk of assisting the mage in question to escape is much greater, almost inevitable. Their emotions are more vulnerable."

"I don't see how this affects me, ma'am," Samson muttered; sweat wetting his palms, "I did not go against my training. The book said…"

"It does not matter what the book said!" Meredith snapped, slamming her palm on the desk. "The theory must be applied to the circumstances at hand, with a grander political context in mind. It must be interpreted carefully, and with questions. Thedas is in a crisis. You may not see it within the halls but I read it in every letter. The madness needs to end. Your text, one of Knight Commander Guylain's is now out of date and therefore irrelevant. Regardless of which edition you learned from, the basic values persist and are of paramount importance. The line between mercy and irrevocable harm cannot be danced over so recklessly like you are in a tavern trying to decide whether you indulge yourself in another drink."

Samson wanted to yell and counteract her every argument. This wasn't about the Gallows or _Kirkwall_ as a whole, but about two individuals.

But he resisted arguing. Maker, it was so hard to hold back.

"I shall ask you to retrieve Phillipa so I can question her as well," Meredith finished more diplomatically, "if I discover her and Maddox are having… _relations_ with each other, you will be dealt with. _All_ of you."

Samson gritted his teeth but tried to keep his breathing steady. He was definitely fucked now. But... he wasn't about to concede. "Of course, Knight Commander."

"Get her now. I don't care if she's asleep. This cannot go unchecked," Meredith said firmly, and she rose from her desk. "Go."

"Y-Yes," Samson stuttered, sounding more like Cullen than himself. Energy returning to him, he stumbled over his own feet as he reached the door, heart pounding in his ears. It was difficult to hear Meredith's final words of 'Goodnight' as he hurried toward the dining hall. He'd get the smallest amount of food on his way and hope some insight would arrive as to how to fix this.

The clunking of his silver boots sounded even worse than when he'd arrived.

* * *

Samson knocked, and knocked again, creating a ruckus that started to irritate even him - still, he could not give up. As his knuckles grew sore, sweat appeared on his forehead and his heart beat so fast he was scared it would suddenly stop working. Even when resting very briefly to eat he hadn't thought of anything on how to help Phillipa. Cullen was probably asleep, and since Samson had already deteered, he couldn't waste anymore time brainstorming.

Finally, the muffled voice of a woman was heard through the door. "What in the name of Andraste…"

The door swung open and Samson was faced with Phillipa's roommate, the one he considered the most beautiful out of all the Templars, and his secret, initial motivation for helping Maddox. He was hoping Zoe wouldn't answer, not now. Thinking wasn't a talent of his with her around, and he needed that tonight. Unwillingly he became enthralled by her perfectly straight nose and the movement of her chestnut hair. The pulling of the door had made it flutter, and now it went still at the lowest angle of her shoulder blades.

Zoe appeared equally startled, yet paradoxically serene and accepting. Even in the terrible lighting her green eyes gleamed, but they did not break eye contact.

He didn't know if his arrival was a pleasant surprise or unwelcome. She was far too…

"Get the less pretty one," Samson blurted out, going pink in the face.

Zoe laughed. "Whatever you say, you naughty spruce."

It was both an unexpected and a suitable answer and he wasn't sure how that made sense, but he didn't question. He watched, the same he usually did.

Leaving the door ajar, his untouchable angel wandered off. The plain nightwear wasn't anything new as the men wore similar garb, yet he admired her muscly, smooth arms, her bruised legs and bare feet. Her broad hips and bosom were accentuated by the linen shorts and blouse. It was just as incredible as his reveries. And with the gentle pain of reality.

It made him sad to think that his plan hadn't really worked. Zoe hadn't warmed up to him in the brief times they'd spoken. Usually she made fun of him. At least, that's what it _looked_ like. Perhaps she saw him as stupid. Worse, maybe she didn't think anything of him at all.

This whole time maybe he should have just sent her a letter or two. It was so obvious now, yet he hadn't the nerve.

With a groan, Phillipa reached the door, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, her lengthy blonde hair was unkempt. Phillipa wasn't known for beauty. She was pretty, but the unconventional sort. In all honesty that feature wasn't too different from Maddox. He had the same cheekbones.

"What's so urgent you had to…' she mumbled and her eyes widened, 'are you alright?"

"He was flirting with me again, the sweet talker," Zoe chuckled, but Samson had trouble remembering his other attempts at seduction with her in the room.

"I can't help it when you're pretty," he said, hitting his hand against the wall in frustration. Okay, Zoe was right. He made a fool out of himself nearly every time he came in contact with her. Still, she never seemed to reject him for some reason. "Meredith wants to talk to you. It's about the letters."

"Oh, curses," Phillipa groaned, "should I just end my life quickly to spare the torture?"

"I'd go. I've already lied. Just… say you were trying to get rid of him."

"But that…" His friend sighed. "I'll think of something."

"I hope so," Samson admitted, feeling more nervous than he had all night. Did Zoe know anything of a solution? No thoughts. Bloody murder. Reticent, Meredith's apothegm of _'get Phillipa now_' crossed his mind, "The quicker you get there, the better."

"I… this is too much. I really hope…" Phillipa wasn't making a good case for herself. She squeezed Samson's hand and peered in his eyes with her brown ones. In them he saw himself, his own anguish for someone he couldn't bring himself to have. "_Let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice_."

The Chant of Light, typical. Phillipa was one of the few who actually enjoyed quoting that rubbish.

With that she was gone. Samson wasn't sure if he'd see her again in one piece. Part of him didn't want to know.

Watching a flurry of Phillipa's clothes flutter around the corner, Samson winced. Zoe was beside him. She was slightly shorter than him, and even prettier up close. He didn't think they had ever stood side by side.

"I told her it was a bad idea, but she was getting so obsessed with Maddox it seemed sad to not let her do it," the roommate explained. Her Marcher accent was one of the more pronounced ones in the Gallows. "It's helpful for good girls to let their hair out once in a while, right? That's what I told myself. How did you do it?"

"I didn't think it would be that much of a problem, but I must have been stupid," Samson said, exhausted from the adrenaline rush, "I still am. I can't stop flirting with you, after all."

He wanted to explain that getting a chance to interact with Zoe was the initial reason for wanting to help Maddox. It was only a vague afterthought now, but it seemed too good an opportunity to miss. They were truly alone for the first time ever.

Roommates often stuck together like family. Zoe and Phillipa were no different. They were like sisters, and he was the weird outsider trying to catch a glimpse of her, wishing he could stop making a fool of himself. It didn't help that there was only a small handful of female Templars in the Circle. He'd been content with visiting the Blooming Rose for years, but he hadn't met someone quite so interesting before.

"Why do you, anyway?" Zoe asked, her eyes meeting his. "Do you make a habit of complimenting girls in your spare time?"

"Uh, it isn't anything," Samson lied, but then his idiocy returned, "I'd love to knock lips with a pretty girl like you, but I suppose that's for the more charming men in this prison."

Zoe chuckled, but it didn't last long. "Oh, sorry. I'm…" She sighed and said the words no one ever wanted to hear. "Maybe we should stay friends."

"Right." Samson paused. He should have expected this answer, but it left a handful of other questions. "Are you my friend?"

"We can be," Zoe said, "I'd like to be."

The conversation was more awkward than ever but Samson couldn't shut up. "That's all I was asking," he said quickly, "I thought it would be nice to-"

"Don't."

Zoe's voice was harsh, maybe even hurt. Samson noticed she was pink in the cheeks. Had she guessed he was about to ask to spend more time with her? For some reason she seemed upset.

It disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

"You're really good looking," Zoe admitted, "I, uh… if Phillipa doesn't... I mean, I wouldn't mind getting to know you better – making your toes curl, if you get my meaning."

As simple as that his nervousness vanished.

Sleeping around in the Circle had a similar reputation to a myth. Everyone secretly knew it happened, but no one could pin point an exact instance of when it did. Now he had a chance to express his pent up desire and longing for her. It wouldn't be a myth anymore, and her answer had... not shocked him as much as he'd thought. He wasn't sure why, how or when Zoe realized she desired him, but this was not the time to think about the logic of primal yearnings.

Simultaneous harmony and disruption rang through the prison, and Samson didn't know which one he was. He felt somehow in sync with her. If he was the peace, what was the chaos?

"I would like that too," Samson said slyly, "If you're wiling we can even bring a bed into the mess. Phillipa would be happy for you, don't you think?"

Being a forward jerk when it came to sex was one of Samson's more dishonorable qualities. Most of the time his hormones made him want to kick bookshelves over in frustration. His saving grace was a prayer that the beauty knew where to draw boundaries. From her regard there was an unmistakable sense that she did. She wanted this, and she knew what she didn't want too.

It would be okay. She'd already forgiven him for his boldness.

He hoped he wasn't delusional from the stress of the evening and he could make the most of this opportunity.

The woman briefly glanced away. "We could do bad things in my bed if you want," Zoe said, although she seemed uncomfortable, 'but I'm worried about Phillpa too."

Samson got the impression they were after a similar release, even if the two were emotionally compromised. He turned to touch her face, so happy he could actually lay his hands on her. She was slightly warm, and far softer than he could have imagined just by looking. Concern was only a fragment of what lay in her expression. "Good, you're no demon," he muttered.

Zoe peered at him with big eyes. "Just so we're clear: we're just friends after this."

That was her condition, so he'd follow. He would never betray her trust. But he was also impatient with need. "Shut it, you'll wake everyone," Samson said, and he pushed her through the door, "and of course."

Zoe giggled. "Shh!"

"Yes, indeed," Samson agreed. Still in his armor, he grabbed Zoe by the shoulders and pushed her onto the bed. "What terrible atrocity should we commit first?"

It was hard to see, but he was sure Zoe was smiling. "First, I think you should get out of that armor."

* * *

It was glorious. Maybe they were no longer classified friends if they were locked in a naked embrace, but the young Zoe was the release Samson had dreamed of. A lot of the emotional closeness was missing, but they shared so many desperate kisses it was forgotten.

That is, until footsteps approached from outside the door.

"We haven't been going that long, have we?" Samson asked, quickly pretending to be asleep.

Zoe sighed. "Apparently so," she said, "and we won't fool her."

The two braced themselves for unpleasantness as the door was forced open. A tear stricken, sobbing Phillipa stood in the door way, her blonde hair bouncing as she tripped over her own feet. Her shoulders quivered and eyes narrowed as she spotted her treacherous roommate and Samson together.

"I should have guessed," she said slowly, "well, it might be best you don't get used to it. Meredith is furious. She says she wants to see you in the morning, Samson."

"What does she want?" Samson asked, raising his head from the pillow. "What happened with you?"

Phillipa's lip trembled and she covered her face in her hands. "Maddox is gone!" she wailed, her voice piercing their ears. "I… he… it's not-"

"Did Meredith torture him?" Samson demanded, "I wouldn't put it past her. She looks dirty enough."

"He's tranquil," Phillipa's voice shook with a disbelief of her own words, "you vulgar libertine!"

There was a stunned silence, uncomfortable even. In it a trickle of guilt, pain and anger found its way into Samson's lyrium infested blood. Goosebumps covered most of his naked skin and he shuddered. Phillipa was a good girl, well, as pure hearted you could get for a Templar, so hearing any insult from her mouth was like the Divine saying the word 'fuck', or other derivative.

"Ouch." Zoe started laughing, much to Samson's disquiet.

"Do you want my philanderer glory in your face, Philipa?" he demanded, only half joking, "I do need to get back in my armor to leave."

He couldn't help it, in the same way Zoe couldn't. The situation was too shocking in order to behave sensibly. At times when Harrowings failed, if the mage had been a twat he had to hide a smile. This wasn't the time for faulty defense mechanisms.

He and the girl he had a fondness for had just enticed a romance of their own while... this occurred.

What a load of rubbish.

Had they disrespected Maddox's memory? If his mage friend knew their dilemma pulled Zoe and him together, Samson wondered if Maddox would find it amusing. Any chance of that reaction was long gone. Samson struggled to consider the truth. Maddox, his ally kept at a distance, was made into a hollow shell? It must be a sick joke.

Phillipa, not smiling along with the comment, hurried further inside and shut the door. "No, don't leave," she pleaded, "that's not what I meant. Please… I just feel horrible."

That wasn't even a quarter of it, judging from the pain in the girl's eyes. Samson was in too much a state of denial to say, or even think, much else. Did Meredith feel happy taking a special person away from Phillipa? Maybe the real reason she'd risen to power is because there was enough of a sadist in her to disregard the feelings of others. He had never wondered this about his superior before, but in trying to deny the truth, the Templar almost thought he would tell himself anything.

The beauty next to him, thankfully, had her thoughts together much neater than he did. "I'm so sorry," Zoe mumbled, and from the side of the bed she picked up her undergarments, discretely slipping them on under the covers, "I know that doesn't make it any less bloody awful, but you did all you could, Phillipa."

"I… I should have listened to you." Phillipa filled with a panic Samson had seen in the early days of passing letters to Maddox. "To myself. I shouldn't have indulged my emotions - kept a distance, as you said._ I_ said. Maker, I'm the biggest idiot in this stupid prison."

_You're not an idiot,_ Samson wanted to say, but he wasn't sure it would sound honest if he said it. It was true, but his friend was in one of those states where the words wouldn't register even if it was something bleeding obvious.

Phillipa was as much of an intellect as Cullen, perhaps even more so. She was the sort of person who deserved conviction in her own choices for her faith and skills. Confidence had only failed her once - in love - and Samson was proud for helping her find where her loyalties belonged in romance, even if the answer held grave risks. They all knew severe consequence were at stake, but Samson was under the impression that if anyone could have gotten away with it, Phillipa would. He had been wrong.

"What will happen to you?" Samson questioned, "and if I had thought you were stupid I wouldn't have passed those letters. We're all to blame."

He watched with sadness as Phillipa approached his side of the bed and sat down on the ground. She picked up his underclothes, passed them over and Samson started to discretely place the cloth back on his body in a similar way Zoe had.

"Meredith is letting me stay," Phillipa said finally, "She says having to encounter Maddox in the halls should be enough a reminder not to 'be foolish'. If I do it again she'll let me go."

"B-but you were just writing letters," Samson said, "If nothing crucial happened…"

"Something did," Phillipa said, leaving the other two bewildered, "It was my idea and fault. Meredith got the information out of Maddox, but he lied and said he had put a hex on me." She shuddered as more tears fell from her eyes. "He didn't deserve to be made tranquil. I'd rather I was given the farewell." Phillipa hands folded together half halfheartedly, as though she knew the prayer wouldn't be heard. "Dear Maker, why couldn't I take his place?"

"Shit," Samson said.

"Andraste's tits," Zoe agreed. "I… I know this doesn't make it better but maybe if he lied for you… part of him thought it was the right thing to do. He wanted to protect you, sister."

"He couldn't though!" Phillipa retorted, "I told him. I knew. I knew - oh Maker - I still did it, but I loved him too much. Nothing can protect you from that, not _here_."

The blonde buried her face in her hands and sobbed. It was extremely noisy and probably would wake those in the next room. Samson tried not to think about the doom waiting for him. If Maddox had been made tranquil, what was going to be his punishment?

"When we met up he said if anything ever happened he wouldn't want to be able to feel the heartbreak," Phillipa explained. "Yes! I agree - but I don't want it either. What does he think, that I'm stronger than him? I'm not! I'm not. Not with Maddox. I told him that. I told him. B-but what am I ever going to do? He probably feels nothing at all for me anymore."

While he wasn't sure bluntness was appropriate here, Samson had little practice with much else. "Talk to him tomorrow when I'm in Meredith's torture chamber," he explained. Now he was in underclothes, he slid out of the bed and put on his armor again. "I… I wish I could have prevented it."

"We all wish we could have," Zoe corrected, her voice slightly muffled by the clunking of metal.

Phillipa wiped her eyes on her sleeve. "I wish he hadn't been so lovely, then I wouldn't have fallen for him."

"Oh, sweetheart," Samson cooed, and his voice was soft too, "no one plans to let their emotions overcome them, even if they are off limits."

"You won't be the last to fall for a mage," Zoe concurred, as the man secured his chest plate. "Maybe Meredith has the hots for the First Enchanter, so she's letting out all her jealousy on you."

This comment somehow, miraculously, made Phillipa laugh, "That would make a lot of sense."

Now Samson was back in his armor it seemed time to go to bed. As he reached Phillipa, he rested a hand on her head. He had never expressed camaraderie in his exact way before. The girl was above him, as far as brains were concerned. She was clever and kind. These qualities Samson admired in Phillipa and Cullen, but it wasn't anything he had mastered. When it came to matters of the heart, the man was a foolish amateur. Zoe, on the other hand, was a middle ground of wit and sensitivity that bridged the the four unlikely friends together.

"Come chat with Cullen or myself if you can't stand it," he advised. "We'll always listen."

"Thank you," Phillipa eyes glittered with gratitude as she attempted a smile, "I'm too lucky to have friends like you."

Samson was tempted to add that Maddox had a part to play in them becoming closer friends, but that would probably make her cry more. He was certain she understood on an incommunicable level.

What kind of person would he see in the morning when he met Phillipa's eyes? Samson didn't know. When she received letters her complexion eventually split into a series of uncontrollable smiles, all decorum forgotten. Watching the girl's initial skepticism turn to ardor was a rare sight. Having her break her own rules to find a glimpse of happiness was beautiful.

Maddox, on the other hand, had started out a passionate risk taker. When the mage gave a letter, he was basically grinning at his own joke. After receiving four or five, Maddox's liveliness subdued into a peace and stability. Truly, they brought out the best in each other. It was a shame that Maddox had practically sacrificed his fiery personality for the girl who, when Samson had first met her, didn't seem like she had much of one.

"I… I'll see you tomorrow I suppose," he said, wishing he could come up with something inspiring to leave them with. Sadly, his mind had been repelled of most of its logic. Deep down, he was skeptical of what would happen tomorrow.

"Goodnight, Samson," the girls replied in unison.

Samson forced a grin, lucky to have a moment of awkward fumbling with Zoe, glad that he was able to give Maddox and Phillipa fleeting glimpses of happiness, even if it might not have been worth it. He hoped it had been. Such highs of life and freedom were always worth it, right?

He walked past Phillipa, and was surprised to recall a relevant section of the Chant of Light, her favorite storybook. "_Blessed are the righteous. The lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written_." He paused. "I believe that we did what the Maker sees as just, even if Meredith thinks otherwise. She's just an old hag, anyhow, a crone with a head too big for her shoulders."

Fitting expectation, Phillipa added lines. "Though the lands suffer a thousand wrongs..." She paused to cry some more in between. "The M-Maker yet notices the s-smallest of deeds. Oh, it's not fair!"

Yes. That he could agree with, even if everything else was confusing.

Lastly, he turned to his favorite lady. Zoe's eyes were filled with something mixed between admiration and turbulence, but it wasn't healthy to analyse it now. Samson would let it be.

As he stumbled into his own quarters where Cullen was sleeping noisily, plagued with night terrors again, Samson wondered what Meredith's definition of freedom was.


	2. Supplicium - Penalty

Trying to ignore Cullen's emotional ailment was similar to dealing with a snoring roommate. Samson's previous room occupant used to make a night racket when he ate too much. To avoid it, Samson usually tried to get the graveyard shift on special occasions. Not only was it impossible to block out the sounds of Cullen whimpering and jerking in his sleep, Samson now doubted he would get to stand in on a Harrowing or see any of his friends again.

He groaned into his pillow, wishing he had received more than broken sleep, a grumbling tummy and a desire to break Rutherford's nose. Muttering to himself and bringing on his own sense of delirium, Samson tossed and turned an unnatural number of times. The nightmares of Meredith locking him in her office forever certainly didn't help.

Cullen woke when the sun rays through their barred window matched the pastiness of the sky. The droplets of sweat on his face glistened and gave his complexion a pale, insalubrious tinge, only intensified by the light colour of his hair. He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and breathed deliberately steady for a few moments. When their eyes met, Cullen's face was overcome with guilt.

"I'm so sorry," he hurried, "I presume by your overt air of insanity that I fell asleep before you did?"

Samson hoisted his legs over the side of his bed and laid his face in his hands. There was no point trying to sleep when his appointment with the Knight Commander was so close.

The distant chirping of birds outside signaled the time when breakfast was available.

"You're a clever one, aren't you Rutherford?" Samson smiled, half sincere and half deluded. Count on his roommate to get it right away.

Cullen shivered, his sheets uncovering the top half of his body.

"Dare I ask what developed from Meredith's meeting last night?" Cullen said lightly, still waking up, "I can only guess it had to do with the letters."

Samson laughed, "No." he paused to enjoy the moment of confusion on Cullen's face, "Of course it was about the blasted letters!"

His roommate crossed his arms once and then tried locking them the other way, in deep thought. The light had a way of hurting Samson's eyes when he was lacking sleep, so this was especially painful to watch.

"Hmmm," Cullen said finally, and he opened his bedside draw to put together a draft of lyrium.

Samson gaped at his friend, and for the sake of proving he was capable of multi-tasking, started doing the same.

"Is that really all you have to say?" he demanded, scooping some tools out of his draw, "I'm expected to see that anal bitch again as soon as I stroll out."

"I told you at the time it was an unsound idea," Cullen said slowly. Now he had finished putting some lyrium together, he sculled it. "Perhaps if we had another Knight-Commander it would have been merely unethical, not near suicide."

Samson finished sipping his dosage before getting to his feet. "Do you mind expanding on what you mean?"

His roommate ignored his question, and looked mildly irritated, how he did when Samson poked fun at him. "What about Phillipa?"

Of course, the goody two shoes Cullen wanted to hear about the equally clean blonde. They had known each other in their youth back in Fereldan. Phillipa had a close friendship with Cullen's sister before moving to The Free Marches. Was it because her parents had separated? Samson couldn't remember. What he _did _recall in vivid deal was Cullen introducing him to Phillipa in the dining hall a year ago - and Zoe, especially her.

"Maddox was made tranquil," Samson said roughly, "and Phillipa gets to stay in the Circle, lucky her."

"She…" Cullen's face went blank. The urgency of the situation dawned on him, "Get in your armor and leave for Meredith's office now!"

"I am!" Samson shouted. He drank the last of his lyrium and put the flask back in its case.

The remaining moments in his quarters were awkward. Samson quickly put on each heavy slab of armor, while Cullen silently rest in his bed, and clunked out of the room.

* * *

He may have lied to Cullen. Samson snuck in a piece of toast once he travelled downstairs, and was thankful that he'd caught Phillipa and Zoe at their usual table in the dining hall. The room was very busy at this time of day so it was easy to have a conversation and not risk being overheard.

"Samson," Phillipa recognized him immediately. Her eyes were red. She must have been crying most of the night, "are you on your way to Meredith's office?"

Samson nodded, his mouth too busy chewing on toast to form words. Zoe vaguely smiled at him.

"I'll go speak to Maddox then," Phillipa said, and she stood on her feet, "Can you come with me, Zoe?"

"I always do," Zoe said in a sing song voice.

This time when the beauty rose to her feet she didn't break Samson's glances. Although, quite unlike usual, she didn't say anything as she walked away. Her expression was… no, he didn't think he'd seen it before. He really wished his mouth hadn't been full. Maker knew he had no idea what he was even going to say – hopefully it wouldn't be something stupid – but he could have at least managed… _what's that look for? _

Shaking his head at how socially inept he was in his own mind, he swallowed as he left the dining hall, hoping something useful would come from approaching that awful room once again.

* * *

When he knocked, he realized tears were starting to fog his vision. Too many consequences would be laid out behind the door, and he feared the very worst, that somehow became more severe the longer he thought about it. Murder might as well have been written on a note addressed to him.

He shuddered as the two gruesome, muffled words came from inside.

"Come in."

Swallowing more than his pride, but his nerves, Samson creaked open the door, and cringed when it squeaked on its hinges. This time Meredith was glaring at him, sitting down behind her desk already, which had even less on it today. Her arms crossed, like they'd skipped back to yesterday but only continued it throughout the entire night. Even though the room was much better lit it didn't make the atmosphere any more welcoming. In some way the contrast made it worse.

"I'm not happy, Samson," Meredith said begrudgingly. She gestured to the chair.

Samson couldn't help it. In his deranged state of emotions he was not nearly as competent as disguising his dark sense of humour. He snorted.

"Do not make it worse for yourself, young man," Meredith added.

Samson coughed loudly, "I apologize, Knight Commander. I did not sleep very well."

"Neither did I," his superior groused.

Samson sat down, unable to stop his legs shaking. It was cold in this room. Maker, he wished he could have slept.

"Do not feel so proud of yourself, doleful recruit. I am used to the countless methods of deception you oversexed fools use," Meredith sneered, "I am more curious of what you believe is your sentence."

Proud? _That_ wasn't true, but he couldn't start by refuting.

"I don't think I deserve banishment," Samson said immediately, "I did nothing outside of what my textbook suggested. I had no idea that Maddox and Phillipa were…"

"They pleased each other's bodies on more than one occasion," Meredith explained for him, "and I no longer believe you are as innocent as you claim."

"I… didn't know that, ma'am." Samson muttered. It was true. Phillipa claimed Maddox and she had kissed, and that didn't seem like a worry. Phillipa had made a chastity vow and he didn't think she would ever break it. Maddox must have been truly something, then. He should have guessed a pure hearted maiden such as her would have lied. A virtuous student would want to conceal her fanciful whims.

"Let me ponder your plea, even though it is lamentable." Meredith leaned forward and interlocked her fingers. "If you were reading their letters as you assured me, why didn't you stop them?"

Samson bit the inside of his mouth. He had to come up with something smart, but his mind had numbed from the stress of being put on the spot.

Meredith smiled, "If, which seems more truthful, you _weren't_ reading their letters, why did you let your guard down in front of a mage? Why did you trust Phillipa to be sensible?"

Despite his best efforts, Samson was frozen. The room had never seemed colder or daunting. He almost stopped being able to hear the Knight Commander from the pounding in his ears. A vein in his temple twitched, but he tried not to run his hands through his brown hair, like he did other times he was nervous. He was unable to feel his fingers from numbness.

Initially, it had been for Zoe, but eventually, he had befriended Maddox and Phillipa and wanted them to be happy. He secretly hoped they could find a way past all the rules, past Meredith's reign of bitchery and be free lovers. Why was that worthy of punishment?

"If I _had_ read the letters," Samson began. He lowered his head, preparing himself to be beaten, "I wouldn't have stopped them."

There was a sharp pause. Samson's jaw burned with how tightly he was keeping it shut. Then, surprisingly, he heard Meredith's chair squeak.

"You are as foolish as the others;" Meredith said slowly, "The world is not as generous as you should believe. Stand up, Samson."

Samson did, wishing he could punch her in the face, but also unable to shake his terror. For once he feared Meredith, instead of simply pitying her, as he stared her in the face. She stood up too and leaned forward, so close she could breathe on him, the disregard for keeping distance a new kind of threat.

"What caused your mind to crumble in intolerable idealism?" his superior uttered, almost as low as a whisper. Her make-up was smudged and her eyes, Maker, had purple veins crawling from the corners.

The truth had to be said. Lying would achieve nothing anymore, but it wasn't worth risking his friends further turmoil.

Samson opened his mouth but no sound came out. He cleared his throat, and tried again.

"There was a girl I was infatuated with, Meredith," Samson explained, in as professional a tone as he could manage, wondering whether he should jump off the Circle tower at the next opportunity. "She was close to Phillipa. I thought if I…"

"You thought wrong, Samson," Meredith said firmly, not hesitating to interrupt him, "I suspect your mind has gotten weak interacting with these silly girls. Or perhaps it was the mage? If you let your guard down around mages you might as well walk naked in the Fade, waiting to be slaughtered."

Samson started to shake. His attempts to stop it only seemed to amplify the reaction.

"The job of a Templar is to be skeptical," Meredith explained, "It is not simply a matter of following the vague guidelines of a textbook. If you fail in skepticism, trust is easily gained by those who are weak of heart." Samson clenched his fists. Was she calling him a doormat? "You are weak, Samson, irresolute and undependable." The Knight Commander finished. Samson felt his stomach burst with anger, "please tell me why I ought to have an unsatisfactory, mediocre recruit among the Circle, when excellency is most needed."

It was a trick question. There must be a loophole. Beneath the lava seeping in his veins, Samson tried to find some logic. Cullen and Phillipa were the ones that got stunning praise.

"You ask them to revise their studies, and ban them from all tasks until you deem them suitable," Samson said slowly.

Meredith laughed. It was a bark, an amused chuckle, but it sounded much worse coming from her mouth, "Imbecile. I don't have the time for such folly," she sneered, and Samson watched with a shaking figure as she pulled a piece of paper out of a draw. "Please fill this out and return it to me when you are done, along with your philtre and armor. I expect you to have departed by this evening at the latest."

Samson's eyes dropped down to the piece of paper. The title said in big block letters, "Record of Banishment."

His worse fears had been realized, although part of him had denied it. Before he wondered if Meredith would truly sink _that_ low… It annoyed him that she had.

Instead of plummeting to the depths of despair, Samson's anger hit a breaking point, a fire he hid well from the world. He lashed his arm down as though he was carrying a blade, and a burst of bright blue light followed. Meredith was quicker. She raised her arm and the holy smite was deflected in an instant, but Samson wasn't going to let her go.

"You're just a bitter, lonely, decaying woman!" Samson shouted. The part of him that behaved was trying to stop himself from throwing every insult he had knowledge of. "I hope you realize your mistakes earlier than your deathbed so you can suffer decades of regret and guilt!"

Meredith's expression of focus vanished. She seemed more withdrawn now, colder.

"Go on," she encouraged.

"Who fucking cares if Phillipa presses her breasts against a mage," Samson roared, "so long as she can kill him if he ever did wrong!"

"Your argument does not stand," Meredith replied simply, "Asking someone to be logical when they are so hopelessly enamored is nothing short of a contradiction." Samson was surprised the Knight Commander was indulging his angry outburst. "You are mistaken if you believe I have been this strict my entire life, young man. I can assure you I've made plenty more mistakes than you have, but I have worked myself to this position so I can prevent others like myself doing the same."

"Not all mages are destined to turn to demons!" Samson argued, "In the same way Templars resist our inner demons."

Meredith laughed and sat down again, "You're an oversexed maniac like your peers. Do not speak to me about resisting inner demons."

Resisting passing letters around wasn't resisting an inner demon. Being nice wasn't a sin. Even _writing_ romantic letters was a display of some form of self-restraint – it could have been worse, after all. Pregnancy was a more serious fate, or Phillipa bedding Maddox a countless other times. Phillipa and Maddox had done bloody well "resisting" whatever urges they held for each other.

"You'll be eating your words one day, ma'am," Samson finished, "When a mage charms you like Maddox had Phillipa you'll wish you never destroyed them."

"If I ever did associate myself with a mage," Meredith continued angrily. She hesitated for a moment, "I can assure you they're now dead!"

With that, all Samson's anger suddenly drained. Now, he felt confused and guilty.

Meredith rolled her eyes. "Leave me, child."

She grabbed a letter from the corner of her desk and pushed the paperwork closer to Samson. "I have more to do with my time than argue with hormonal bigots."

Stepping forward, his old self returning, Samson reached down and grabbed the paper, very quickly; worried Meredith might suddenly decide to stab him with her nails.

_Hormonal bigot? _

He'd slept with Zoe and really, his body felt better for it, so what did she know?

He hurried out the door without another word.

* * *

Samson did not understand why he deserved to be banished, not long after the conversation drew to a close. If anything, it just made even less sense. He looked at the floor, unsure of who to talk to first. Hopefully Zoe hadn't been scared off, and would Cullen be watching a Harrowing today or just wandering around looking intimidating?

The idea of leaving felt mad, not _real_. When he was passing letters, the world felt a little like a dream too, but a pleasant one, a form of escapism. While he did that, he could forget about other issues in life – boredom, what to do with his salary, gossip, training, and mages. Playing hide-and-seek and snooping around the Gallows was challenging, though he adapted. After nearly being caught a few times, deception eventually became easy. He saw goodness in the eyes of the mage and Templar he was trying to help. Such a simple gesture, the acts of kindness, made the world seem simpler, blissful, like it made sense.

As tears filled his eyes, he decided to visit the only person who would be in the same place. All Tranquil were ordered to help manage the magical stockroom.

He was going to talk to Maddox.

* * *

It was like insomnia, like enduring the deadly broken sleep all over again. Maker, he wanted to rest his eyes, but not now, they refused, pouring with tears instead. Nobody asked why he was crying, why a man, a Templar of all people, was distraught. The mages, his brothers and sisters alike, simply watched, perhaps knowing and judging- thinking he was wrong. He still didn't think so.

"Maddox…" he said slowly. There wasn't only the near bare head of Maddox near the shelves of magical stock, his lover was there too: Phillipa.

"Good m-morning," he said, alarmed by how odd his voice sounded. Phillipa and Samson must look identical from the pink eyes. It calmed him that he wasn't the only one looking awful.

Maddox was a sight to see. His usual, cheerful grin was nowhere to be found. The wrinkles near his eyes, which often creased when he laughed, had gone flat. He might as well be a statue decorating the tower entrance.

Phillipa wiped her eyes too. "It isn't good," she said bitterly, "but thank you."

The woman's eyes darted to the piece of paper, but she didn't say anything.

"Have the two of you managed to make amends with your suffering?" Samson said slowly, breathing heavily in between each couple of words. More tears fell onto the floor, but as they did, he pretended he was invincible. Tears didn't mean he was _hurting_. Phillipa's lip trembled, so Maddox spoke instead.

"I have memory of our times together. I have an awareness that we were in love and I was very happy," Maddox explained in an unnatural drone, "I am unable to ease Phillipa's pain with recollections, however."

"H-He will never love me again," Phillipa said sadly, "he can't."

"If it will please you Phillipa," Maddox began, "I can do whatever you say."

Phillipa sobbed again, "I told you no."

Samson understood the inhumanity of ordering Maddox around. One of the features that made Maddox unique was that he never let anyone tell him what to do. He often laughed at the rules and insanity of society. He wished for a better world, and he wasn't going to let anyone stop him living a good life.

Samson paused, "Are you truly content seeing your loved one pour her eyes out?" he blinked hard so his eyes would stop stinging. "Do you not feel guilty for being selfish and removing your own pain?"

"Of course he doesn't, Samson!" Phillipa protested, "Why do you think they call it Tranquil?"

"Phillipa is right." Maddox nodded. "What else could I assist you with?"

Samson groaned. The real Maddox would never say something like that. Phillipa seemed to share the sentiment. She turned to him.

"Is that paper what I think it is?"

Samson lifted it so Phillipa could read the title. She frowned.

"Do you think Meredith would let us trade?" Phillipa asked, "I don't want to spend the rest of my days trying not to think of him."

"No," Samson said, and for that he was certain of. "Where's Cullen?"

"He's patrolling the top floor today," Phillipa explained, "Zoe's in the courtyard, in case you were wondering."

Yes, he did want to talk to her. About what, he still had to figure out. He needed to plan _something_.

"Thank you."

Samson paused. If this was the last he was going to see Phillipa he wanted to do something meaningful. "You've been great company here, Phillipa."

"Meredith was wrong to do this, Samson," Phillipa said firmly, "I mean, maybe not to Maddox and I, but to you…"

Samson crossed his arms, "I must deserve it if she's kicking me out."

"Don't say that again," Phillipa warned, "Or I'll sing the entire Chant of Light at you."

Samson shrugged. "I'll go see Cullen. I… I'm sorry. I'll never stop being sorry, not for a moment, even if it's unneeded. I can assure you of that."

Before he could hear more protests from Phillipa, or a tactless observation from Maddox, he headed toward the winding staircase. He supposed he would see Zoe on his way out.


	3. Abdicatio - Renunciation

The higher floor was a mix of long corridors and tightly packed rooms, unlike the open space of the main hall. It had hardly any windows so appeared less welcoming and bleaker than many other sections of the Circle. Drab grey stone tiles made the mages' complaints of the Gallows seem understated.

It didn't take long to find Cullen. He had his usual determined look on his face, curls lightly combed and his chin cleanly shaved, inches from a wall. He was peering at some teenage mages converse loudly, fists at his side, almost an extension of the building since he exuberated such ardent stillness.

The girls couldn't be more than fifteen, an incontestably galling age. Even in his more energetic youth, Samson wouldn't have been bent on engaging them in conversation. They appeared superficial and frivolous, with overly cautious posture, intensive make-up and strident voices.

It was always hard to tell who was keeping an eye on whom when all the robes were the same. Stupid tradition, there needed to be name tags or something. There was always a risk of losing sight of a charge in a crowd. There had been the blundering moron, Audie – A bad memory she was. It was always plain obvious when her time of month was, and she liked to play hide and seek. It was a marvel her Harrowing had been a success.

Samson clearly remembered the hard look on Cullen's face when he'd explained his previous Harrowing did not go smoothly. 'No matter how much their faces change, possession always reminds me of… that other place.' He had said. Cullen hadn't looked at him at the time, just peered at his fingers, expression stern, 'I cannot help but get mildly fond of my charges if they are kind and sensible.'

To which Samson replied, "If a woman dies it just means there's one less means to distract me."

If experience was any indication, the gossiping females would not appeal to his roommate's goodwill. If his title allowed him to subtly trip them, he would have. Sometimes the two would complain at mealtimes about how they wished a Harrowing would go wrong, just to rid the world of one more narcissistic idiot.

"And did you see him at breakfast?" The girl with red hair and freckles giggled. "He spurt coffee out of his nose!"

"At least he didn't drink it after that," the other, a brunette, promptly replied.

Cullen's eyebrows disappeared into his hair when he spotted his roommate. "Samson!" A look of deep concern washed over his features. "How did… oh…"

He spotted the piece of paper before Samson could explain anything. Thinking on his feet, like the noble fellow he was.

Cullen placed his hands on Samson's shoulders. "Do you have much time?" he asked, his forehead wrinkling from worry, "We must play some chess before you go."

"I can't get you in trouble too!" Samson yelled.

Remembering where he was, and his sacred duty, Cullen looked flustered, and he removed his hands. "Uh, yes, right." He shuffled his feet. "What…um…"

There was no time for well thought out phrases at a time like this. Samson had used up the last of his manners with Phillipa, and Meredith never left a good impression. At the unexpected joy of encountering his closest companion, Samson's emotions burst as the sadness, anger and every other emotion made some last stabs at gruelling his throat. Instead of simply stuttering, which was Cullen's awkward talent, he fumbled a sentence he never expected to hear, much less say. "I love you, brother," Samson blurted out.

He blushed immediately, heat flooding to his extremities. This was exactly what happened when he was around Zoe but, strangely, for a man. It had never happened before. He wasn't attracted to Cullen. This wasn't going to be interpreted well. Rutherford ought to kick him!

It was then Samson realized he couldn't cope with strong emotions, and he had never been in a situation where his relationship with a fellow brother was threatened.

Judging by the sudden halt of giggling, the two mages had stopped talking to listen.

"I meant to say…" Samson tried to save himself quickly. "you have been the most helpful roommate I could have asked for. The Maker must have wanted to please me when you were transferred here."

His face a bright red, Cullen chuckled in embarrassment. His iris's darted sideways to see the two mages staring at them. Their relationship had always been like family, platonic and light hearted, but Samson's joy of teasing Cullen sometimes made others look at them strangely. Typical. Onlookers always got the wrong idea.

"I have to admit," Cullen said, "I think I will miss your rude sex jokes and ridiculous obsession with making me feel awkward at every opportunity. You don't often meet people like that in the Circle."

"I'm one of a kind," Samson said with a smile.

"Yes." Cullen nodded. "If you find gratification in putting a comment like that on its head."

The Templar's skin had resumed its usual color and it appeared that the awkward moment had passed. Only it hadn't. Samson needed to have one last prod at hurting Cullen's ego. Deciding to take his messing with Cullen to the next level, Samson moved close enough to Cullen that he pressed their noses together. His roommate must have known he was in trouble. He had gotten accustomed to the malicious glint in Samson's eyes and saw it fit to recoil slightly.

"Who knows?" Samson grinned, knowing his next comment would piss Cullen off, "If I was drunk enough I would probably touch you inappropriately."

He couldn't claim to the truthfulness of this, of course, as Cullen especially despised Samson when he was on the piss. It meant more trouble was coming and usually Cullen liked to hide away behind a book and excuse himself from the scene. There had been one time, when to avoid this, Samson had chased Cullen out to the courtyard shouting obscenities, and he'd been met with a hard kick to the shins and some magic to the face. The bruises had been horrible, but he doubted Cullen would use that tactic now. Looking back on the memory was a combination of pain and hilarity.

Samson was right. Today he would not leave the Circle with a monstrous bruise on his thigh. There were a couple of milliseconds where the man's face contorted into one of confusion, embarrassment then nervousness sequentially, before settling on one of pinkness, enmity and revulsion.

"Would you shut up!?" Cullen shouted. His voice probably carried down the entire floor. The two mages by them burst into giggles.

Samson laughed, glad he could amuse some teens at the very least, and he stepped away from his roommate. He had caused enough torture for a good couple of years.

"Will you write?" Cullen asked, trying to regain his dignity. "It would be a shame to let our friendship go to waste."

"I hope so," Samson said, "I will if I can. Also…" he hesitated, not sure if his next question would sound paranoid, "do you know if anything comes after headaches?"

"Headaches?" Cullen didn't follow. "What are you talking about?"

"The lyrium!" Samson shouted, "or did you forget I had to stop taking it?"

"Oh." Cullen cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable. "No, I haven't ever gone beyond a headache, I'm afraid."

"There's something to look forward to." Samson gritted his teeth. "Maker smite me."

Honestly, he had not thought about this until a few minutes ago too, though that did not lessen the severity of the anxiety.

"I'm so sorry," Cullen allayed. He grabbed one of Samson's wrists and squeezed it. "I wish you all the best, my friend."

Samson sighed as tears started to fill his eyes again. He glared at the two mages. They had stopped giggling, but were staring.

"Bugger off, you sods!" he spat.

The girls' eyes widened.

"Do not go too far. I'll be there in a moment, Miss Ortega," Cullen instructed. His tone deepened, "while my _accomplice_ here entirely intends to offend you, rest assured that he will not decapitate anyone in the near future."

"Yes, Templar Rutherford, ser," The redhead replied, and the girls scurried off.

"I do not look forward to explaining the context of our conversation to Ortega," Cullen said mildly, readjusting part of his armor, "she's such an intrusive young lady."

"Better you than me," Samson said, and judging from Cullen's smile, his roommate agreed. Samson however, couldn't declare relief. All other confessions aside, now the overwhelming mix of emotions had ended, it was only clear to him now how uneasy he felt. There was so much uncertainty and danger that lay outside the Circle walls; he might as well undergo a Harrowing of his own. "If I'm being honest, I'd rather slit my wrists and be done with it."

This time Cullen was angry. His expression soured and he raised a pointed finger in warning. "Don't you dare," he breathed, "I'll be the one ending your life is I see it fitting to do so. You are too kind hearted to judge yourself so harshly."

"That's a first you've called me kind," Samson muttered, not sure whether to be surprised or embarrassed.

"Annoying, at times," Cullen admitted, "but yes, you've always been willing to show others mercy."

"On the subject of mercy," Samson began, "Do not take what I mentioned a few moments ago so seriously. " His voice cracked. "I mean, I do –"

"Don't say it," Cullen rushed.

"But I…" Samson scratched the back of his neck. "I do think of you very highly."

"Settle down."

Cullen pushed some of Samson's hair out of his eyes, and smiled. "I do as well."

They shared a warm moment of solidarity together, perhaps the first genuine one in their time knowing each other. All those memories, good and bad, had a place in the end. Sadly, one of those would be the changes and misfortunes to come.

"I better leave before Meredith accuses me of something else," Samson said uneasily. He stepped back, not just away from Cullen, but away from every memory he had in the Circle. "Later."

"I doubt we will be distanced for long." Cullen linked his fingers together. "Kirkwall is a small city."

Samson left to his room, and finally caught a better look at his paperwork on the way. The following was listed with large gaps for writing space in between: What are the accusations against the applicant, what are the applicant's comments, if any; please provide any feedback or suggestions to the Circle, and finally a signature, to signify that Samson understood why he was being kicked out. Meredith had to sign it as well.

He sighed. This would be irritating and tedious.

* * *

Meredith's eyes narrowed as she read over Samson's paperwork. All his belongings lay on the desk.

Samson didn't have the greatest variety of clothing but it was enough that he could carry it in a bag without being overworked. He preferred spending his money in the Rose or the Hanged Man. Clothes? Well, his only reason to purchase expensive garments was when he had been invited to his former roommate's Bailey's estate. His parents were rich, and thankfully not too snobby. Today he wore dark trousers with an olive linen shirt. It was inexplicably odd to be in the Circle and feeling so light, it hadn't been this way since he had arrived.

"I was expecting you would take longer," Meredith admitted, and she signed the bottom of the page. "Very well. You are dismissed from duty, Samson."

That's it? Well, he supposed the Knight-Commander wasn't the type to give hugs and a propelling speech about how proud and grateful she was for his hard work. The lack of acknowledgement left a touch of anger behind, a sense of being used and underappreciated.

Samson wasn't sure what the etiquette of leaving the Circle was, so he simply nodded and said, "Have fun dealing with idiots."

Meredith peered up at him from her desk with a hateful scrutiny that said 'Get out of my sight', so Samson did just that. He definitely wouldn't miss her, at least.

* * *

Outside was quiet, very sunny, and strikingly uninviting. He stood in the Gallows Courtyard for a moment, not doing anything, before making his first steps into his demise. There would be no more seeking for apostates, late night strolls or guard duty. He would be just an ordinary, unemployed man loitering in Kirkwall. Before the full magnitude of this set in, Samson spotted Zoe leaning against a pair of doors opposite, kicking loose stones into the air.

"Andraste's tits!" Zoe shouted, and she almost toppled over when she saw him, "I guess you're going out into the real world, aye, Samson?"

"We're already in the real world, Zoe," Samson said, feeling both sad and angry, "the only difference is I won't get paid for it."

"Yeah." Zoe put a finger to her lips in contemplation. "Tough luck, I mean, bad, _horrible_ luck really."

"Since when do you blunder with words?" Samson asked, placing his hands on his hips. It felt odd to not touch heavy folds of cloth, but be able to feel his pelvis underneath. "I thought I was the only one besides Cullen who made myself look stupid in front of rare beauties."

Zoe giggled, but then she stamped her foot into the ground, as though trying to stop herself. "I'm always a giant klutz once I've engaged in fornication with a..." She peered Samson up and down. "...stunning jerk, I mean, man." Her expression became panicked and flustered. "I said a _paragon of masculinity_!"

Samson laughed. "I guess it's a shame I won't get to share the embarrassment with you anymore."

The relief of being normal washed over him. He wasn't the only one who blubbered like a moron. Not only that, but she was getting that way around him. It was an unexpected, though welcome change.

Zoe blushed, ran her hands through her hair, and seemed to settle down. "Where will you go?"

"I don't know," Samson admitted.

"Do you have family?" Zoe inquired, "With everyone in the Gallows, I forget these things."

Samson slid his hands into his pockets. "That depends on what you consider family," he voiced, "Tell me about yours first."

He had a vague memory of this too. Every so often, Zoe would mention her – was it brothers? – to Cullen and Phillipa at the table.

"I see where you're going with this," Zoe said, although Samson was completely oblivious to what she meant, "I've got three brothers. One joined the Grey Wardens, one joined the Circle and the other helps my parents run their tavern in Darktown."

"Ah, yeah. I didn't know of any taverns in Darktown," Samson confessed.

Zoe shrugged. "No one ever does. The Hanged Man is too popular, but it _is_ there. 'The Broken Spine' it's called."

"I'll have to take a look," Samson said. He smiled at Zoe. It was odd to see her in broad daylight, and that hardly ever happened. He never volunteered to chase apostates with her, he always got too nervous, figured it would turn awkward so remained quiet. Out here she appeared more childlike, vibrant and the light illuminated the green in her eyes even more obviously. "Is one of your brothers a Templar?"

"A magic, I mean, a _mage_, actually," Zoe said in a funny voice.

"Yeah?" Samson took a step toward her. "That would make some interesting stories."

"Not really," Zoe said, "We hate each other. My whole family hates him. Not because he's a mage, mind you, he's just a prick."

"I'm not sure if I should be happy my family doesn't hate me," Samson said slowly, "at least if it makes you cry, I can find an excuse to kiss you."

Never before would he have uttered a line like this, even with his rambling, but now, it seemed so much easier. Maybe the sex had made the difference.

"I'm well prepared for sob stories, believe me." Zoe laughed, peering up at Samson with her big green eyes. She had put parts of her hair in braids today. It suited her very well. Now he was closer, a few more of her physical imperfections became known. She had a small mole on her left cheek he hadn't noticed before and a scar above her right eyebrow.

"I had a twin brother," Samson began, "although he died within the first few hours of being born. My parents became wrecked in grief and do not speak to me very often. I got very comfortable with silence at home. I thought it was the usual until I went to the Chantry with my mother and made some friends. They said I was weird." He shrugged, "I suppose I am."

"You're less weird than Meredith, if it makes you feel better," Zoe noted. "Did you ever speak to them about it?"

"Eventually," Samson responded, "'It's like living with a ghost,' they said… stupid dead brother. I don't blame them for it, but it isn't like being here. My mother devotes her life to the Chantry while my father is too stuck in his work." he paused, "I'm not sure if I went home they would even be there. They did not respond to many of my letters, so I stopped, not wanting to burden them. They have better things to do."

"Perhaps I could go with you," Zoe suggested.

"Now you're really in over your head." Samson laughed, "No. I will leave them be. I'm sure if they want to speak to me, they'll find me rolled up in a blanket somewhere."

"Samson," Zoe began. She leaned closer to his face. "If you need anything my dad might be able to help you.'

How kind of Zoe to say something like that. And yet, in his gut it did not feel so gracious.

Samson ran a hand through Zoe's hair and stepped away before he could kiss her, changing his mind. It was too irritating that he had to leave in the first place without giving him extra ammunition.

"Thanks, Zoe." He paused. "For being a friend."

"I'm sorry about…" she hesitated, and seeing Samson's expression merely said, "Good luck."

Zoe waved. It was obvious by her tone and expression that she had more to say, but Samson couldn't bring himself to keep talking to her. If Meredith spotted him he'd probably be tortured some more, and it was going to be hard enough without his lyrium.


	4. Peractorum - Nostalgia

The boat ride back to the Docks gave Samson plenty of much needed head space. There was something about the gush of waves and the flicks of salty sea on the face which cleared the mind of its petty chatter. The feeling of Zoe's hair, the smell of her sweat and the awkward smile on Cullen's face seemed as far away as the Gallows itself.

The boat conductor tried to create conversation, but Samson wasn't feeling too chummy today. The other Templars who had accompanied him for the ride certainly didn't improve matters. They kept catching his eye awkwardly, so Samson stared at the water and pretended not to hear their jabbering.

With an unanticipated jolt Samson realized he was truly alone for the first time in many years.

Zoe was right. He needed a plan, somewhere to stay and somewhere to work. Was it worth the trouble of trying to live without lyrium? He didn't want to be dependent on the stuff forever like some alcoholic bum. The odd job was not going to suffice given Samson's heightened need of stimulation.

The closest job to the Templars was the Kirkwall Guard. It may not be a perfect strategy, but at least it was a start. Anything that avoided his parents was a step in the right direction.

"If I pushed Melanie off the boat, how long do you think she'd take to sink?" a male Templar asked.

"I haven't got that heavy, you oaf!" defied Melanie.

Samson tried not to look or smile. These people were strangers to him now.

After he'd crossed the same boat some hundred times it was easy to guess how long the ride took. This was different though. When he reached the ground Samson would be following his own rules, not someone else's. Without his friends to chat to the ride felt lengthier.

The shoreline presented a collection of tiny squares. It wasn't far now. It would have been beautiful if it wasn't for the feeling of a belt wrapping tighter around his head, like a torture technique. It had gotten more painful, but at least the symptom wasn't anything Samson hadn't dealt with before. Most likely from stress, as he had taken his lyrium this morning, this was somewhat manageable.

Food would be great right now, not just for the distraction, but that single piece of toast didn't last.

The side of the boat grated against the dock, and Samson caught eyes with the conductor. They nodded to express what didn't want to be said.

"Good luck out there, brother," one of the male Templar's muttered in his ear as the others hoisted themselves off. The boat rocked in response, testing his capacity for emotion as it did. Somehow the fact they called him 'brother' made it worse. He was letting go of more than just his sleeping quarters, job and friends, but his family, the only real one he'd known. _Now_ he felt depressed.

* * *

As he jumped off the boat and took in that familiar smell of fish and muddy boots, Samson was surprised to see he was not the only one who had been traveling. A good handful of men, women and children clumped around Lowtown's entrance, speaking in loud voices.

"Please! You can't just make us wait here!" called one woman. She had Cullen's accent, which could mean they were Fereldan. They certainly weren't there a week ago. Perhaps an odd protest was going on.

Waiting until the Templars had disappeared past them, Samson moved closer.

"We've got a team searching for somewhere for you to stay," came a loud voice. It was Captain Ewald, just the person he had been hoping to speak to! "But we cannot make any promises at present. Kirkwall just wasn't made with enough…"

"Just let us in, mate!" moaned a heavily bearded man, "we got poor children starvin' here."

Samson pushed through the crowd as though he was only walking, another habit he would have to break.

"Excuse you!" snapped a woman. Her face was so freckled it almost looked bronzed with white specks. Samson instinctual reaction was to say 'It is not in your best interests to refuse the authority of a Templar, lady'. Instead, he shrugged.

"I'm…" he was about to say 'following orders from Knight-Commander Meredith', but instead settled with, "I've got more to do here than you lot."

Before any other protests could be made, Captain Ewald spotted him. His red hair was distractedly bright, and his stern expression was reassuringly the same as always. It took a few moments for recognition to register.

"Is that Ser Samson?" Ewald said bewildered.

"It is," Samson said, speaking louder than usual to overtake the protests, "I can see this might not be the best time, Captain, but have you got any extra work lurking about?"

Ewald sighed, "Maker knows I need more help. I… I can't speak to you right now, sadly, but if you can keep yourself distracted until the afternoon I can interview you in my office. Just let one of the guards know."

Samson nodded. "At once, Captain."

There, he had something to do with his day, easy as pie. Having connections to the Templar's wasn't entirely for nothing. Slightly more optimistic, Samson pushed through toward Lowtown, heading to the Viscounts Keep. It would be a long walk. First, he needed food. Lowtown had some half decent joints.

Samson followed his memories. He'd gone out drinking with his fellow brothers in The Silver Fountain once. The piss cheap wine was strong enough to get drunk in record time, but the food made you forget the taste. Perfect.

He settled with grilled fish, not leaving until every drop of oil was sucked from his fingers.

He had gotten quite familiar with Lowtown's average housing, some of the interiors even. There was that fat woman who had thrown a kitchen knife at him. Crazy mother - it had been kind of fun to see the downtrodden look on her face as Samson retrieved her son regardless. Poor fella didn't see what was the matter with his mum… those kids always adored the safety of the Circle. His parents lived here too. It would need a lot before he even considered speaking to them.

As Samson took in the giant black doors of the Viscounts Keep, he felt unnerved. It was sundown, and despite the fact he had consumed a large lunch, his headache was still lingering. Concern on how lyrium withdrawal would bother him tomorrow occupied him for a moment.

There was no point making a fuss. He stepped inside. Maybe the guardsmen could distract him.

A faint echo of chatter entered his ears as the doors shut loudly behind him. The high ceiling and those stairs were like royalty. It could have been another day working for Meredith- only his presence didn't clatter loudly with each step. He felt lighter and slightly smaller in stature. There was something odd about being one of the ordinary people, not getting stares as soon as he walked past. Still, out of habit, Samson kept his back obsessively straight and his gaze fixated unshaking ahead. There was a job to do. He had to be confident.

"You're one of Meredith's, aren't you?" wondered a guard at the barracks doors. Samson couldn't tell who it was, but he turned. Judging by the blue eyes, tan skin, and voice, it was Wright. His helmet covered most of his jaded demeanour.

"Not anymore," Samson said grimly. He crossed his arms and was surprised he felt warm. "It's a long story. I'm supposed to meet the Captain in his office for an interview."

"Ah, I see," Wright cleared his throat, "The Blight is making us all want to unscrew our heads from our ears. Wait in the dining room. There are plenty of books and parchment if you need it. It's just down the stairs to the right."

"Excellent." Samson tried to smile, but it was difficult with his headache. "I might see you later, then."

Wright nodded. If he was smiling it was impossible to tell. "Best of luck. I've only got five more hours of this slog."

"I always hated door guarding too." Samson consoled with a small wave. Wright probably didn't care much for conversation either. Pity.

The dining room was one of the places the former Templar never had the opportunity to visit when the Guard and Templars collaborated, but it didn't take long for the new experience to lose its novelty. The room was pretty; sure, it had bookshelves to the left and right, enough literature to last him hours. The stone flooring and walls was just as grey as any of the other parts of the building, with narrow windows against the far wall. It was more cramped than the Templar dining hall, but it shared a similar smell of rust and cold chicken. The Gallows hardly ever prepared chicken. Bastards.

Three long wooden tables were lined up in a grid pattern with matching benches, where Samson's eyes fell on two guards finishing some bread with cheese. One was a girl with shoulder length brown hair. He'd seen her before, was her name Brenna? A man with dark hair was next to her. He had a very pronounced jawline and looked like he wasn't too talented with a shaving knife.

"Hey," Samson said wearily, pacing slowly toward the bookshelf, hoping the girl would recognize him. Judging from the alertness in her brown eyes, she did.

"You're Cullen's friend," the guardswoman said. Her voice trailed off, "I can't remember your name though, sorry. I'm Brennan."

"I didn't mean to interrupt your lunch," Samson said.

Brennan shook her head. "Not at all. I eat fast," she explained, "Gotta use my big mouth for something, don't I?"

The woman pushed away her plate. Her friend, whoever he was, hadn't even glanced up.

"I'm sure your mouth has other uses," Samson said, but then he realized how inappropriate his comment was, "I'm Samson."

"That's it!" Brennan clapped her hands together triumphantly, "This is Corwin. He's pretty quiet."

"Hello Samson," Corwin acknowledged. He had a deep voice, one that was far more intimidating than should be possible for a human. The man must have done something awful, or seen it, as a distinct heaviness lay about his eyes, similar to the darkness Cullen used to carry.

"We've got to leave in ten," Brennan advised. She pushed her plate away. "But sit down! Tell me what's new."

"I'm waiting for an interview," Samson explained, and as he spoke he sat down on the other side of the table. He'd never had such a good look at her face before.

"So you're no longer operating under Meredith's reign of terror?" Brennan asked, "Did you leave?"

"I was…" Samson hesitated, not sure how to circumvent instantaneous gossip, "forcefully removed."

There was a very brief, but edgy pause. Corwin finally looked up at him.

"But you were with Cullen a _lot_ of the time," Brennan said in confusion, "he would have kept you out of trouble."

"I didn't break the law," Samson attested, more harshly than he liked. "Meredith has too many eyes."

Corwin chuckled, but as to what he was thinking, he didn't express. Brennan was observing Samson with a peculiar expression, like maybe deciding whether she believed his story.

"_Read Guardsman: Principles and Practice,"_ Brennan recommended, "It's our main textbook. It might be all the same as Templar theory but background reading can't hurt."

"I appreciate it." Samson nodded. The dull pounding was draining on him. Curse that blasted, goddamn headache. At least the last time he'd accidentally withdrawn from the drug he didn't have a massive textbook to read.

Brennan and Corwin left shortly after, leaving Samson with silence. It was a job in itself to find the textbook since they were badly arranged, but at least he could skim the material. Many of the protocols in the book were similar except with minor changes, so it was worth the read. That didn't make it fun. Between chapters 'get stuffed you bleeding headache' found its way across tables. Thankfully, the room was mostly unoccupied.

Judging from the sudden influx of guards that sat down with him in the room to eat, then disappear; it was nightfall when the Captain returned. It was lucky some guards took pity on him and gave him some dinner, or he would have been close to collapse.

"Samson, you can come in now," Ewald said.

Samson jolted. He had been half asleep for the past half hour, resting in a chair. "Thank you, Captain."

Ewald appeared exhausted and frustrated. Not only was his face highly shadowed by the lantern light but he didn't have the slightest hint of a smile. How much horror had those Lothering folk given him?

When Samson reached the door, his bag making his back ache, Ewald brought him to the one place he had approached many times in the past: the Captain's office.

"I'm sorry about the wait, Samson. I've had to change the rosters in a hurry," Ewald explained quickly, "If today was anything to judge by we will need more personnel screening the refugees from Lothering."

The Captain opened the door and ushered Samson inside.

"Lothering is tiny," Samson mentioned, as the door was shut behind him.

"Yes and no," Ewald said, clearly unhappy, "If they evacuated safely we'll be looking at half of Lowtown, at least."

"Blimey," Samson remarked.

"Ooh yes. Indeed." Ewald sat behind his desk. It hadn't changed since Samson had last been here, only there were a lot of papers on the desk. The candle shone an eerie glow on the four bookshelves behind Ewald. All the comparisons left as the Captain leaned forward onto his elbows, "To business: I'd like to know why you are no longer a Templar."

Samson's story did not concern Ewald a great deal, thank the Maker. Already he was considered much kinder and more competent than Meredith. Neither of the other questions was reasonably difficult. It, so far, felt the same as working in the Circle, almost. Maybe this arrangement would work out.

After a long while, Ewald handed Samson a set of armor from a cabinet. It felt like betrayal to see the Guard symbol on it and not the Templar one.

"You'll go on patrol with Nathara. She's starting at 7:30am in Hightown so be ready at 6:30 to leave. Wait at the dining room door." Ewald explained. "I'll catch her before I leave to the Docks again tomorrow with my associates. It is an easy patrol so she'll be able to talk you through the finer details and answer questions."

"Yes, Captain," Samson blurted out. It was an awkward transition, rather than saying 'Knight Commander' constantly.

"The men's bunks are at the end of the hall." Ewald finished, "Goodnight Samson. I look forward to hearing of what you can do."

Samson wanted to respond, but he was too tired. Ewald looked more worn out than Cullen after a night of sleepless whimpering. They were both knackered.

More bunks were set per room than in the Circle, three beds per bunk, poised against the left and right walls. That meant there would be more potential for snoring, pranks and procrastination. That warranted another point to the Gallows. Plenty of space lay between them with a rug and a desk opposite the door.

Three of the beds were already occupied, but it was too dark to tell who anyone was, they could have been piles of pillows for all the good it would do.

The door shut with a soft click. Great… he had not introduced himself to a group for a long while.

"In case I look like an amalgamation of shadow to you, I'm new here." Samson had never felt so ridiculous talking to apparently nobody. What if they were all asleep? His voice sounded hollow in the cramped confinements of the bunk, like he was shoved in a broom closet.

He paused, peering to find the bunk which had fewer luggage underneath, but it was impossible to tell which was free.

A voice, which belonged to a man with possibly green eyes, answered. "Hi new here," he called, to a response of chuckling.

"Hilarious," Samson muttered, not at all in the mood for jokes.

The man who had spoken cleared his throat. "Sorry, it's too hard to resist." There was a flicker of light, which made Samson think the speaker was waving, "Just try memorizing my name for starters: Dirk, but everyone calls me Dirt. Honestly, I don't mind either. They're both heinous." He paused, "The bottom bunk on the right is free. Beware, one of the springs is loose, and it may scratch you."

"Honesty will get you far with me, Guardsman Dirt." Samson kind of liked the sound of the name, "its Samson."

"Sammy!" Dirt seemed happy with this.

"I'd rather my name wasn't defiled," Samson grumbled. His headache made his tone sound slightly more aggressive than normal. This was sure to cause some miscommunication. "Also I have a headache."

With difficulty, Samson placed his armor down where there was space and finally freed his shoulders from his bag. If the bed did have a loose spring it was very well disguised. It had become a luggage space so Samson took a few moments moving all others belongings to the floor. The rattling made his ears ring.

"I'll call you Headache then," Dirt concluded.

_Please no._

"You were Cullen's buddy," said another man, from the right top bunk, "I like that guy. He's got funny hair."

"I can make your hair funny if you are so envious," Samson spat. Why did everyone have to know him through association? He didn't think his name was difficult to remember. He saved himself immediately, "sorry, I mean…"

"Oh, I get it now!" Dirt said loudly, "You're getting worked up over your lack of blue poison."

"Lyrium, yes," Samson said. He sat down on the edge of the bed and undid his shoelaces, "I took some this morning, but I am worried about the withdrawal."

"Just buy some if you can't handle it," the other man said.

Samson refused to answer. He didn't want to talk about it. There was too much uncertainty and anxiety. What he wanted more than anything was to release his thoughts to paper. Yes, there were plenty of envelopes and parchment on the desk. Cullen would be happy to hear from him, Zoe too. He took off the last of his shoes and head to the desk, "Where do I send letters to?"

"There's a messenger that hangs around the main hall," Dirt said, "who are you sending it to?"

"Goodnight, Dirt," Samson said firmly. It was the perfect strategy to say 'shut up' without being overly offensive. He used to use it on Cullen all the time. Rutherford always got anxious over nothing. Maybe now Samson would take in that role. Thankfully Dirt took the hint. He quietened down and Samson moved onto a chair. The scratching of the wood on the carpet made him audibly groan.

The two guards who were awake promptly replied, "Goodnight, Headache."

He hoped on Andraste's tits that _Headache_ wasn't going to be his nickname for all eternity. In the flicker of candle light Samson scribbled out two notes, feeling the heaviness in his chest lift as he did so. Homesickness was an odd feeling to describe, he had heard many tales of its ache, but never experienced it himself. Now he knew this was the sadness so many writers identified. He longed for the Circle, but not for Meredith or the boring door watch duty, but his friends. As he scribbled, his tiredness made dots of ink soak holes into the parchment. The words weren't as elegant as he wanted them to be. Curse it all.

Cullen, my dear friend,

What a day. It's been too much. I've had a headache from start to end. It is manageable… for now. I start training tomorrow for the Kirkwall Guard. Maybe if I'm lucky I'll get to wave at you from across the Hightown pavement. Not bad for day one outside the Gallows, right brother?

I never thought I'd miss the Circle,, but I have never been so certain of an emotion. Pity.

Tell me of the Gallows. Has Meredith been fair? Say hello to Maddox and Phillipa for me. Pray for mercy for those heartbroken lovers.

Samson

Zoe's letter was mostly the same, except for the end passage.

I worry that I cut you off earlier. Was there something you wanted to say?

I could do with anything to remind me of home.

It was nice to slip some parchment in an envelope, comforting to have some reminder that his family weren't far away. Maybe working here wouldn't be too bad. So far it was similar. If anything the bed covers were nicer. Warmer. If he was in the Circle he could have caught up on his lyrium dosage by now and slept peacefully.

Samson lay awake for a long time, trying to think of something other than wishing the beautiful blue liquid was at his disposal, Zoe with her smooth long hair and stunning green eyes. He pondered on whether Zoe and Cullen would eventually disappear from his life, like some of his other Gallows brothers had drifted apart. If they did, what would be left of him? His life hadn't ever been anything without the Circle, and now he had a headache to prove it.


	5. Motus - Unrest

The first thing Samson did when the trumpet announced its shrill calling was to hit his head on the bunk above him. He had slept so badly he was edgy and hyper vigilant. More than one groan filled the room, but Samson's was the loudest. In a disorientated frenzy, before he could even think so much as an 'ouch', a man from the bunk above him spoke."You're the first up, Samson."

None of the other men shared that intimidatingly deep voice. Samson rubbed his head. It was the bloke Brennan had been eating with, Corwin.

In the Circle the shifts usually started at the same time, which is why they only had two Templars per room. It was a decent system. This drill was going to be a nightmare if his sleep continued to fail. With Cullen's tossing and turning on his last night in the Circle, he was starting day two of much lacking sleep. To make matters worse his headache was back, although perhaps it had never left. The dull throb was just enough to skew his concentration.

Samson could only nod. "Thanks," he murmured, but he didn't think Corwin heard him. He didn't respond, anyhow.

Letters. It would be a miserable day if the ex-Templar forgot them. Struggling to focus, Samson opened a desk draw out of habit. No philtre.

_Damn. Remember the letters._

This morning routine was going to be a nightmare if his sleep continued to disappear.

* * *

Porridge and honey. It was a strange luxury. Better than toast anyhow. Samson's headache had faded completely, but after swallowing his last mouthful, he started to shake. It was hard to tell if it was from the hot or the cold. No, this must be the withdrawal too. Maker's balls, this would be difficult to hide. Maybe he could say he'd gotten feverish. Yeah, that'll work.

He picked up the letters from the table and stood outside the dining room, still trembling. What was he, a little girl? Phillipa had looked like this the time she'd received Maddox's first letter, but Samson had managed to make an acquaintance smile. How could he have _refused _to pass on a piece of paper?

Catching sight of the orange chest pieces, the dragon symbol on his armour, he felt unnatural. It might feel just as heavy, but he wasn't Samson the Templar anymore, though Guardsman Samson. It sounded messy in his head.

He nodded at the few passers-by as they exited the dining room but was more interested in the Captain. Ewald had appeared with a weary smile and spoke to a woman possibly a similar age, it was hard to tell, with a maroon ponytail and pointed ears. She nodded twice and her eyes met Samson's. That must be Nathara. There was something odd about her. She was elven, fine, but her eyes were so dark they looked black. If looks could set buildings aflame she could destroy the entirety of Kirkwall in minutes. It was uncomfortable to look at her.

They retained eye contact as she approached.

"You're shaking like a wet dog, Guardsman," the woman observed, and she outstretched a hand. She had a trace of an accent, but it was difficult to pinpoint the origin, "The boys call me Nath."

Samson shook it. "I look forward to learning from you, Nath."

Nathara's eyes narrowed. She was slightly shorter than him, but her strong presence made up for the difference, "Are you nervous?"

"No," Samson lied, but he held up his letters, "where do I drop these off?"

Nathara didn't seem to acknowledge what had happened. She marched to the door.

"Let's go." she said, her ponytail bobbing as it went.

* * *

The walk to Hightown was very quiet. Any other person would find that odd but Samson was used to the solitude. The air was crisp and thin, and the sun was only teasing at daylight, but at least he sent the letters. Nathara was very confident, and they didn't look at each other as they marched, stopping at a fork in the path near the Merchant's Guild. The first words to come out of Nathara's mouth were, "are you too terrified to ask me a question, Guardsman?"

'No." Samson said shortly. This was the truth.

"Then why are you still shaking as though you have seen carnage?" Nathara demanded, "Are you sick?"

Samson didn't want to talk about it, so shook his head. Nathara gave him a piercing look, but sighed.

"If you are sick, it is best you retrieve some medicine," the elf answered finally, "I do not want you vomiting. Is that clear, Guardsman?"

Samson nodded, but the pressure of considering help made him want to hurl. His trembling intensified, but this time it was from anxiety. He needed this job, he couldn't…

"My last Guardsman was pathetic. He always wanted to be the hero." Nathara ranted. "'Got his head chopped off by one of those Carta scum."

"Why are you telling me this?" Samson wondered, his teeth chattering, "Do you th-think I'm p-pathetic?"

The thought made him want to trip the elf over, but he tried to be civil. He needed this job.

"Not at all," the woman answered, "I want to figure out your personality flaws before they cause trouble."

The sternness in Nathara's eyes was all too familiar. Meredith's words passed in his head. The Knight-Commander had thought he gave into temptation too easily. What bull! Was the elf the same?

"I can assure you I'm not any more flawed than you are," Samson muttered. Of course he was flawed, but he was competent, and he _certainly_ wasn't weak.

Nathara's stony complexion turned on his. "That does not fill me with much confidence." she said slowly, making as much sense as Cullen did during an anxiety attack.

"Fine." Samson crossed his arms in an attempt to stop the shaking, "I'm guessing we're looking out for any unusual activity. It seems the same as the Circle."

"Nearly the same," Nathara mentioned, "although you are not allowed to be as ruthless."

"Who says I'm ruthless?" Samson raised his voice, expelling what he couldn't contain any longer. Everything about her, this whole conversation, made him think of Meredith, that cruel, rotten bitch. It brought arise a fire he wasn't aware existed. Before his redundancy had been such a shock there wasn't a lot of room for anger, but it _was_ there, an unmovable wrath.

"I am aware you are withdrawing from lyrium. You assured Ewald it wouldn't be a problem, but I digress." Nathara paused, "what is your plan? What will you do if you start vomiting everywhere?"

Samson shrugged. Losing his breakfast was the least of his concerns. "I haven't got one."

The fact Nathara had played innocent was only mildly annoying in comparison to the furious array of swear words he wanted to unleash on Meredith, although meshing armour with the elf was something he had not expected.

Before he could realize what was happening, with a soft hiss, Samson's torso was in a lock and Nathara's sword was at his throat. As his blood vessels threatened to burst from alarm, he ceased quivering.

"That is your personality flaw," Nathara said in his ear, and her accent was identified as _not_ from the Free Marches, "You have no sense of purpose."

In such a compromising position a normal person would hold their tongue. Samson did the very opposite.

"How would you know…" he began, but the elf was too fast. With superb control of her weapon, she simply tapped his skin with her blade, light enough to cause the smallest, mildest incision, and put it back in its sheath. He could hardly feel it.

"You better find your muse, Guardsman," Nathara warned, "or I will be spreading you on my bread in a week's time."

Making sure he hadn't missed anything in his stumbling, Samson quickly recovered from the small attack, but apart from a woman walking her mabari, the streets were empty.

"I don't think putting me on your toast is the best way to consume me," Samson said dryly. It wasn't a joke. He was thoroughly confused as to what the woman meant. She was still standing so close, as though he was afraid he'd run away, like she wanted the troublesome man on a leash.

Her heavy eyebrows made her appear very androgynous. "_Tu n'existe pour rein. Pas une putain ou pour organizer mes chemises_," she muttered.

"That's not elven," Samson said harshly. The next utterance was an accident, "are you on the piss or what?"

"Do not speak to me like that, Guardsman."

Samson didn't give a rat's arse about formalities, especially when his trainer had said she wanted to spread him on bread. It was one of the stranger insults he'd received in his lifetime.

"If you tell me what that was about," he incited, "I'll try determining a plan for what to do about my withdrawals."

The empty Hightown made their voices carry far, but he was already so removed from himself it didn't concern.

They glowered at each other for the moment. If that elf was going to dismiss his feelings, he would make sure to avoid her at lunchtime.

"_Comme tu veux_," Nathara responded. She paced down the street with her hands clasped behind her back. The woman must have done this patrol a hundred times. She wouldn't be so carefree otherwise.

Samson followed. A dwarf was jogging around the square, breathing loudly and covered in sweat, but it was just the two of them speaking.

"There's no reason for you to exist. You're no good as a whore or sorting my clothes." Nathara recalled, "That was the last I heard from my master. That is what I said in Orlesian to you."

"One of my friends called me something like it once," Samson admitted with a smile, "so I strongly doubt I fit your description. But… wait, you had a master?"

It was difficult to imagine this elf with such a thick skin mopping floors and dusting windowsills.

"I used to be an Orlesian servant, Guardsman," Nathara began. She crossed her arms, "It was just me and my mother. We got to live quite fancy lives, as you Free Marcher's might say. Like here, a city called Val Montaigne." Samson nodded, still shivering, even though the tremors were much less, "Did you have an extravagant life?"

"If the Gallows counts," Samson remarked, "I haven't spoken to my parents in years."

"A shame. My mother and I were very close."

"How'd you get here?"

"Ancil Bisset was our master. A lovely man, unless one wronged him and got on his blacklist, of course."

"Did you toe the line, Nathara?" Samson wondered.

Nathara shook her head. "I did not." she said, "My mother was his mistress originally, but they developed a secret relationship, leaving me very alone much of the time. One day Bisset's neighbour spoke to me while I was trimming the garden hedges. Fremont. He was very kind. Our talks gave me reason to… keep going."

All these concepts of living and dying, it all seemed rather insignificant when it came down to it. Samson wasn't sure what to think of the story so far.

"My mother had a miscarriage which killed her, and Bisset turned his attention to me," Nathara paused, "But he hated me. He couldn't understand why I had to live while his forbidden lover perished. I couldn't stand the place any longer. I asked Fremont what he thought I should do. He offered to buy me from Bisset. The thought filled me with such happiness I burst into tears. I was convinced I would never be alone again." The elf turned to Samson, but her eyes were still just as steely as before, "Fremont got on Bisset's bad side that night, and I was forbidden to speak to him. It gave me more will to depart… and now I'm here."

"If I didn't know better I'd say your fondness for this Fremont was your personal weakness," Samson pointed out.

Nathara's face engulfed with rage, but when she spoke her voice was weak. "Don't remind me."

Samson felt somewhat enlightened by her tale. He had never personally known an Orlesian, much less one with pointed ears. Nathara glared at Samson.

"Before you tell me about the incident of when _you_ were named a whore," Nathara said plainly, "Give me your plan."

"I don't like thinking about it," Samson said softly. In the time since he'd left he had considered both options, leaving him just as confused, "One of the guards said I should just take it if I need to, but if I'm going to work here I want to be free from my connection to the Circle."

"I gather you're trying to fit together two ideas that are wrong for each other," Nathara observed, a curious glint in her eye, "what will you do if it becomes too much?"

"I don't know," Samson admitted. This was as far as he'd self-discovery had gone, it was intimidating to push further, "I guess it depends what 'too much' actually means."

Nathara looked like she was thinking, "Would you prefer mental freedom at the risk of being unemployed, or dependant on a substance but have a stable place to live?"

"Both are terrible choices," Samson said. The second variable was basically Templar life, only missing the components of the Circle he was proud of, "I wish I wasn't addicted at all. I didn't want to leave the Circle in the first place. It was my home. I don't think the Barracks will ever replace it."

Whenever he considered jumping off the lyrium fence his heart was drawn to the despair of being distanced from everything he cared about. It wasn't logical. From the heavy sorrow, no grassy field was a comfort. Nothing was just. He should be smart and move past it like a sturdy man should. Maddox wouldn't have lingered on this garbage, he was a man with a free mind, even if he had been bound to a prison, but Samson didn't want this life. He just wanted to go back. Grief hacked at his bones, barring him from seeking aid. No matter how loudly he banged on the doors not an ounce of compassion would allow him to enter. He was an outcast and a whole lot of nothing. _Life_ was nothing without a home.

"If you do not make a decision, Guardsman," Nathara said coolly, "you are leaving your life up to chance, and the winds of fate may just pull you into a cyclone."

Samson glanced about, but the streets were still as cold and empty as when they'd arrived. He realized why he'd been so immobilized by emotion, because his body had a means of amplifying everything.

A torrent of nature's rage was better to feeling isolated and alone. It was a nicer calling than a vague imitation of deceit. The job, the people, it was nearly the same, but it was like traveling to a forest on the other side of the country and pretending you never left. It _looked_ the same, but it never would be, it couldn't. One day if he persevered could he feel proud of his new dwelling?

The Circle's stony drab walls had been so integral to his very existence it seemed nothing more than a promise, and such vows of dedication could be broken. If he was frowned upon as crazy, so be it. Perhaps he was. A dog that had spent its whole life in a kennel couldn't be expected to wander far beyond its cosy room without self-inducing starvation.

"I will take that chance," Samson said, "If the withdrawal process turns me into a monster, I'd rather lose my mind so I can no longer be aware of my mistakes."

He was no better than a mabari chasing its tail, chained to a lamppost, forever imprisoned by its own circumstances. He didn't want this life, only to wander home. Was leaving his fate up to the Maker such a disastrous choice?

"They call that Tranquility in your Circle, don't they?"

"Kind of." The ex-Templar gritted his teeth and tried to look interested in a brick wall, but the trick never worked, "If a demon was going to possess me, say, I'd rather…"

Do what Maddox did. Did he consider running from pain superior to feeling the agony itself?

"I have heard some call Tranquility a fate worse than death," Nathara said thoughtfully, "it seems you don't think so."

Not precisely, Maddox's destiny was disturbing and wrong; as it was Samson's fault the severity had befallen his mage friend. If the heartbreak was anything close to what he felt whenever he remembered his heritage, he wanted nothing to do with rationality. _This _is what Maddox wanted to avoid as well. Perhaps the trouble making mage was more like Samson than he wanted to admit.

"You can't screw up your life if there is no concept of going in the wrong direction," Samson mentioned, "I imagine there is a different kind of pleasure involved with a life like that."

"Fremont used to say that about Bissett," the elf murmured.

"Fremont was a smart man," Samson agreed.

"Yes," Nathara approved. She kept her eyes fixed on the scenery in front, "but a life without insight must be chaotic. What does your Chantry say about it?"

Samson tried to recall the writings. Phillipa knew it better than he did, even Cullen. "_And as the black clouds came upon them, they looked on what pride had wrought and despaired'_

"What do your teachings say it means?"

Samson shrugged, "I hardly remember. There are multiple interpretations." He shielded his eyes. The sun brightening the Hightown pavement refracted painfully off the tiles.

"We ought to keep walking," Nathara said, "This time of morning is notorious for mistakes to be made."

"I don't know what to believe in anymore," Samson said slowly, more to himself, "My brothers, sisters and I were taught to follow the Chant, but no one really knows what it means. We just took it as do what is righteous, what were _taught_ was righteous. I thought being just _was_ the Templar Order."

He kept his eyes ahead as he walked. Nathara didn't acknowledge he was speaking, but from the stiffness of her jaw she was listening. "I was an example of justice, but what happened to me wasn't righteousness, it was an example of abusing power. I don't care how much of a crisis Thedas was in, Meredith was a bitch and she deserves what Andraste got. Maybe Andraste was a paranoid wench too."

Nathara turned her stern face to Samson, but the emotion was completely unreadable. She looked like Meredith, that crazy, rotten cunt.

"Don't vomit, understand Guardsman?" she said finally.

"I promise," Samson said, but he was filled with rage. He could manage retching over his emotional struggle. Addiction wasn't righteous. It was controlling. People controlled to exercise their fear for beings they didn't understand. He had been used and abused. A toy to be played with and thrown away…

It was a good time to the conversation to end, for a middle aged woman wearing a blue jacket and dress of some high end material was jogging toward them.

"How can we help you, madam?" Nathara asked, in a tone so formal and polite it was bordering on Cullen-like. The woman's eyes were filled with tears. She slowed, and as she did the faint echo of her sandals disappeared.

"I'm so pleased you weren't far!" she said between gasps, "My house was broken into some time during the night. I didn't notice until just now." Then the woman blushed, "forgive my choice of pajamas."

"They look expensive," Samson joined in, "I didn't notice."

Nathara looked irritated, but she didn't let this translate into her voice, "May we take a look, madam?"

As they followed the half jog of the stranger in shimmering night clothes, Samson was somewhat relieved to have a distraction. He couldn't admit he'd ever dealt with burglary before.


	6. Vexamen - Disturbance

_Samson,_

_I am delighted to hear that you have found somewhere safe to reside. Please inform me on how your first couple of duties go. Does it remind you of the Circle?_

_I am well. Meredith discussed the possibility of me becoming Knight Captain. She says she is going to give Phillipa some time to make use of herself, as she was the first choice. It makes me feel guilty, but it would be very interesting to get a more accurate idea of what Meredith manages on a daily basis. Perhaps if she threatens to go too far I can put a stop to it._

_Given my potential candidacy, Meredith let me choose if I wanted a new roommate or not. Given how frustrating you found my sleeping habits I said it was best I stay in my room alone. Truth be told, it wouldn't feel the same in the Gallows without your rude comments._

_How are you finding your withdrawals?_

_My kindest regards,_

_Cullen_

Zoe's letter also mentioned Cullen's promotion, but she elaborated on Samson's question.

_It wasn't much. I'm sorry for being so closed minded about you. Phillipa always reminded me that you were kind, but I figured if you can hardly open your mouth without embarrassing yourself, why should I listen?_

_Maybe I'm selfish. That's fine if you think I am. It's sad you left and I hardly knew a thing about you. Come visit if you can._

_Zoe_

This was the fourth time running his eyes over the words, and with each re-reading Samson yearned to go back to the Circle more and more, even if it involved guarding a door rather than streets. What would it take to convince Meredith, if she even could be reasoned with? He had responded a few days ago with pleas for help, hoping that Cullen could give him direction on how to handle his withdrawals. Coping with these physical sensations was impossible. Everyone had been accommodating so far, and yet it didn't seem to be enough. Nothing ever was.

Broken sleep was not replenishing as it should be, and the ex-Templar defenses were wearing thin. It wouldn't be long until his bunk mates shared the same sickly, bruised bags under their eyes from passive withdrawal. Even more heartbreaking were the heavy pangs of guilt and confusion that had plagued him since he'd arrived. Every person in the Barracks knew _something_ was wrong with him, and soon enough he'd be at Ewald's desk, trying to explain why he was failing to perform at a minimal level.

"Samson?" Corwin called.

Samson spun so fast he had to hold the desk steady to stop assaulting the parchment to the ground. "What is it?"

Corwin was in his armour, his black hair brushed back. It showed off the stern lines of his jaw. The introvert was one of the only men in the bunk who didn't call him 'Headache'. Whenever the nickname was forgotten, Dirt always made a note of reminding everyone. Corwin had managed to talk Samson out of punching Dirt in retaliation. Even if Samson knew nearly nothing about the man, except that he owned hair grease and closest family was his sister, the ex-Templar decided he liked him. Decency was hard to come by, and extra appreciated, when he was dealing with difficult situation.

"It's tradition to take you to the Hanged Man for drinks for surviving your first week."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Samson asked. Certainly, he'd fall flat on his face after one glass.

The guard shrugged. "Tradition's tradition. You had similar rituals back in the Circle, I imagine?"

"Well…" Besides memorizing the Chant and doing his duty as a Templar, there had not been many social gatherings. "Not in the way you describe it."

"I was ordered to drag you."

Without so much as a blink, Corwin grabbed Samson's arm and pulled him away from the desk. "Come on, Guardsman!"

"I know how to drag myself!" Samson groaned, his head pounding again. "Let's go."

The loud noises and even the soft lighting of the Barracks was too much. Samson felt constantly exhausted, making him either extra slow or exceptionally quick on the uptake. The imitation of a fever came and went as randomly as his headaches. Corwin had been woken a few times when pain and convulsions prevented Samson from sleeping, so at least one other person had a full understanding of what was going on.

Samson met with the ones who shared his room outside the Viscount's Keep entrance. It was past sundown and a little more difficult to recognize who was who in the dark. He still couldn't remember all their names besides Dirt, Corwin, Broden and Evander. Nathara and Brennan had also arrived for the trip, as well as another girl with dirty blonde ringlets he had seen but not spoken to. Everyone was still in armour, and even if the thought of frolicking was fun, it was dampened by his general air of unwellness.

They cheered when they spotted him.

"I knew they would drag you into this stupid excuse for socializing," Nathara said disgruntled.

"Stupid? More like exceptionally mandatory," Brennan said.

Everyone was speaking so quickly it was impossible to get a word in.

Corwin found his way to Brennan. "He's ready."

"Headache!" Dirt called, clapping a hand on Samson's back. "Come chat with us, we're going to get you blattered!"

He had an unhealthily pallor complexion and a thick mop of straw hair.

A positive about the Barracks was that they didn't have to cross a lake to get to any premises for social gatherings, but it still felt just as long. The temperature was pleasantly mild and the city lights made the pavement appear like a completely different place.

"How was your shift?" Brennan chimed in, "I didn't see you eat much at dinner."

"Eating is effort," Samson said plainly. This was true; it felt so much harder to eat when all he wanted to do was sleep. He would pay all the coin in his pocket for that luxury, but he didn't want to take lyrium to do it. He had to wait for what Cullen said. His friend always knew the right thing to do when it wasn't obvious. "Nathara and I managed to break up a few fights, it wasn't anything too exciting."

After Hightown he had patrolled part of Darktown and the Wounded coast, but in all honesty, it wasn't much different to tracking down apostates, only without a phylactery to guide the direction. The extra exercise and change of scenery was pleasant, though.

"I was helping out with the Lothering refugees," Evander explained, his dark hair slicked back with an abnormal sense of neatness, "Ewald's nearly had enough. He's talking about leaving."

"I heard that as well," Dirt said.

Samson would have glared if he had the energy, but Nathara spoke for him.

"I just hope if he does the person who replaces him is just as competent." There was a hint of sadness in her voice, suitably so. Ewald and Nathara seemed to be close.

"I saw Cullen with a blonde Templar the other day," Brennan mentioned, "she looked damn depressed if I'm being honest. Are they related?"

"No, although they could be twins for how alike they think," Samson admitted, mildly comforted by the thought of Phillipa, and consequently, home.

Dirt turned on him, but Corwin stayed close and quiet.

"What's the story with why you left, eh?" Dirt asked, "You don't really talk about it. Is it such a big deal?"

Samson shrugged. "It's a complicated story."

"That's why we're making him drink, you dirty minded stud." Evander chuckled.

Samson tried to smile at his new team, even get a reaction out of Nathara, but there was very little to go by. The Orlesian simply observed his posture with a sternness only matched by Meredith.

A short, yet frosty gust of wind crossed them, making the first steps into the Hanged Man a shockingly warm contrast, even if it smelled like the contents of someone's stomach. He forgot about the noise, listening in to other's conversation, trying to be interested.

Only two ales down and most of the crew's voice levels had augmented, except Corwin, who had gotten quieter.

"We ought to go to the Blooming Rose later, don't you think Headache?" Dirt laughed.

There were some chuckles of agreement.

"At least that would make him smile," Broden, who was the eldest, agreed.

"Samson is unwell," Corwin butted in, "Leave him alone."

"Aww, Corwin's defending poor Headache," Dirt cooed as he ruffled Corwin's hair, "do you want to give him a kiss to make it better?"

It happened very fast. Corwin grabbed Dirt's gaunt face and dug his nails into the skin.

"Blimey! You have a lady's nails!" Dirt shouted, and he pushed him off, "I was just kidding, brother."

Corwin shrugged and peered over at Samson. In it there was solidarity, knowing they were friends. The others were just assholes.

"I think the distraction would be good for poor Samson," Brennan admitted, "Come on. We ought to topple down, don't you think?"

Samson smiled. He had been to the Blooming Rose on a few occasions but rarely thought to go there in his spare time. Perhaps with friends it would be easier. His body felt like jelly, unusable as though it was being controlled by a demon. It was completely demoralizing.

"I refuse to step foot in that whore house," Nathara said huffily.

Brennan giggled from her last pint of ale.

Dirt stamped his fist. "Oi, don't be so disrespectful. We're paying customers and they're just doing their job." His eyes were red from the alcohol. "A job's a job, yeah?"

"I would like to go, Nath," Samson mumbled in a slur, "how about you help me walk?"

"Excellent. I knew you'd get your chance eventually," Brennan said. It sounded like she was on his right. "Let's head to the Rose and then go to bed."

It hadn't been long, but it was still a relief to leave. In a daze, as though his hands in front of him were someone else's, Samson struggled to his feet.

The rowdy group weaved through the blurred patrons and reached the door. Samson could hardly tell what was happening. As he took every step, he reminded himself to not trip. Anything not to make a fool of himself…

The cold night air assaulted his face.

"Remember not to mention Faith to poor Headache." Dirt said, to which there were groans.

"Dirt! You fucking idiot." Broden roared.

It sounded like Dirt was slapped. "Is _everyone_ trying to attack me today?"

"What?" was all Samson managed. All he could see was armor. Just lifting his head was torture. He hadn't drunk _that_ much. This was the lyrium having its way.

"We didn't say anything!" Dirt assured him.

"Samson's not _that_ stupid," Brennan countered.

"Don't be a turd," Samson grumbled. His raised voice made him sound strangled, "Tell me or I'm leaving."

Mutters, confused ones, became a blur in the night, and then Corwin's voice entered his ear, "Go home, Nath. I know you hate it. Let me explain."

"Samson, I think you're being requested to call favourites," Brennan hollered from his right, "Do you want to lock arms with Nath or…"

"Corwin," Samson said with finality. There was no way in the name of Andraste's knickers he was going to let a woman drag him along the pavement, when he wasn't even that drunk. Besides, Corwin was so bulky he could make him think the rest of the idiots were somewhere else.

All he saw were the beige Hightown ground as the switching of arms took place.

"Best of luck, Guardsman," said Nath, before her voice disappeared into the noise.

Samson forgot who had been there within seconds. Corwin was so tall he almost hoisted the ex-Templar into the air when they locked arms.

"How you?" he mumbled.

Samson groaned in response.

Thankfully, Corwin understood. "There is an old story," he began slowly.

"Shuddap, you bigot!" one of the others yelled.

Corwin coughed loudly, and Brennan's accent seemed more pronounced. "Leave them both alone! They're more men then you lot combined."

"Ouch."

"Best leave it, brother."

Another step. Samson strained his ears to listen, as he almost fell over.

"When Knight Commander Guylian was in your ranks there was an incident. Do you not know it?" Corwin asked.

That was like asking which pieces of armor or clothing out of a pile of stolen goods came from which city in Ferelden. Like he'd have any idea. The Gallows was like family. A real family communicated and secrets were hard to keep. The question wasn't if Samson _knew_ of an incident, but the real mystery is _which one _he was referring to.

"Why do _you_?" Samson wondered.

As the Gallows isolated from the rest of Kirkwall, it seemed odd that anybody outside of the walls knew so much as a whisper.

"Faith, one of the girls at the Rose… she used… she used to be in the Circle." Corwin explained, "as a Templar."

"You're lying," Samson groaned, not knowing what he was saying anymore. He could only concentrate all his might on his bunkmate's voice so he could at least have a conversation.

"No." Corwin shook his head. "She is not allowed to see Templars. Madame Lusine forbade it years ago because she got violent with them."

The ex-Templar hadn't been to the Blooming Rose much since Cullen became his roommate, but this did sound familiar. Before he got transferred, his previous roommate knew about before a woman like that. _The Cut Throat Courtesan,_ he believed she had been nicknamed, if they were even the same person.

"Why…" Samson wasn't sure how to phrase the question, but Corwin seemed to know the answer.

"She might be able to see you." The Guardsman paused. "But I'm not sure you'd want to. She is unstable."

"Have _you_ seen her?" Samson asked.

Corwin shook his head. He had a grim smile on his face, and he whispered in Samson's ear. "I only see the men."

Samson's heart jumped as he was filled with a small shock. He'd never hear someone admit this to him before.

"Everyone else has seen her," his bunkmate continued, "She is quite talented, I hear."

Brennan joined in, "Leave him alone, Corr. He doesn't need to know this."

"She just sounds like a nutter," Samson admitted, 'why would it upset me?"

Instead of pulling him away he was only more curious as to whom this Faith woman was. There was no question. He would find out.

As Samson entered the Blooming Rose he felt sicker than he had since the entire withdrawal started. He needed the best distraction the brothel could provide. Someone with even a rumor of being called the _Cut Throat Courtesan_ attached to them would surely fit that requirement.

Brennan said goodnight and disappeared across Hightown, leaving Samson arm in arm with Corwin. The Blooming Rose was so bright it was nauseating. It was as lively and noisy as it was in daylight hours. Like always, the manager approached them with a pained expression, like she'd rather be anywhere but in their company. "What would you like, boys?" Madam Lusine said in a stony voice, "Do you know our prices?"

The others ordered before he did, one after the other. Samson kept his eyes on the Madame, as though it would help him keep sane. He couldn't hear her, but he saw her mouth move lazily as she pointed them to the lounge. Her dark skin had an oily complexion in the bright light, but her shoulder length silver hair was almost mystical in origin. He nearly forgot he was locked arms with a bunk mate.

"Would you like for me to wait for you?" Corwin asked politely.

"Please," Samson responded.

"I'll just sit in the crowd then," Corwin muttered, and he let Samson go. He stumbled for a few moments and didn't successfully straighten in time.

Lusine looked at Samson with a cold stare. "You look awfully familiar," she said dryly, "and incredibly intoxicated."

"I've been here before."

"We cannot allow you to pay if you can hardly walk," Lusine answered.

That wouldn't do.

"I just have a funny leg," Samson lied. He cleared his throat, rummaged for his bag and forked out four sovereigns, double the premium service, "I'd like to see Faith, please."

"Faith." Lusine's eyes narrowed. She took up the coin with impatient fingers and peered over her shoulder, "I'll let her know you're interested, see if she'll put up with a drunken fool. Wait there."

This was not ordinary in the Blooming Rose, but Lusine must not be keen on him walking. Samson was angry. He wanted to say he wasn't drunk, tipsy at most, but the explanation was likely to cause friction. Lusine returned in half a minute, as Samson peered vaguely over at Corwin, hoping he wouldn't get bored. The man appeared relaxed.

"Good evening, Guardsman," said a smooth voice.

Samson raised his head and peered upon a woman who was clearly older than he was, at least by a decade, in her thirties. She was attractive, however, with musky, smokey eye make up and pale lips. She had dark brown hair and tanned skin, taller than he was. Maker, he had never met a woman so tall.

"Come on through," she said simply, and she walked off to the stairs. Samson followed, admiring the way her hips moved, the way her muscly thighs fit so snug in her pantyhose. The grey tiles which were so similar to the Viscounts Keep, or even the Circle were as far away as his mind. Sex? He doubted he could smile. He was more interested as to who she was, which he usually didn't give a rat's ass about. He felt too ill. Lusine was right. He shouldn't even be here.

The door locked silently and the ex-Templar was left in a room with a four poster bed. He hadn't used this room before.

It's not like sex required much thinking, so the idea of a whore upsetting him was bizarre. Nearly tripping over his own feet, he cautiously lowered onto the bed, as though afraid it would spontaneously explode. At least the covers were soft.

He flinched as he saw Faith's stern eyes meet his. Already, she was on her knees, waiting for his instruction. They were blue, like the brightest lyrium.

_Shut up, you comparisons!_ he scolded himself.

"Please tell me what I need to know," Faith said firmly. She ran her fingers through his hair. She had quite narrow hands. "I want to do good to our Guards, keeping us safe at night."

"I don't know."

He paused. What _did_ he want right now? He was usually happy with getting head. It didn't take much to please someone as starved for affection as himself. Tonight, it was different. There was a reason Dirt had brought her up and he wanted to know why.

Samson only managed a half smile as he placed his fingers on her shoulders. "I want to know what your hands can do," he instructed, not able to decide if his head felt heavy or light, "and tell me your story."

"My … what?" Faith was obviously confused, though she followed instructions well. Samson tried to help take off his armor, but he could barely move. His hands started to shake. The woman peered at him suspiciously as she started to take off the armor for him. She'd done it before, her fingers moved with such prowess it was as though she owned a pair of armor herself. The lady might even remove it faster than he could.

"I want to know about your life," Samson re-iterated, "My friends thought you might upset me for some reason."

His voice failed as his brain shut down. The room blurred and for a moment he thought he saw Zoe's face instead of Faith's. Andraste's fake tits, he didn't need this sort of shit now.

"I was raised in Darktown with my Grandpop," Faith said slowly. Samson was down to his underclothes, but he could barely feel the fabric on his skin. "I don't know why your friends would think I would upset you either. That's all there is to me."

Faith pulled down his smalls, leaving his bottom half was exposed, but the sensation on his skin felt distant and unrelated to his body. "Tell me _your_ story."

Samson groaned. He couldn't think, barely move, let alone retell any tale he wanted. He was usually so much less… floppy when he came here. His arms trembled as Faith put his cock in her hand.

"There's something wrong with you," she said. The tone wasn't accusatory, though dispassionate and cool. It was obvious to both of them. He couldn't get it up, even with her hands all over it. She must know it wasn't from alcohol.

They met eyes and electricity filled the room- not an arousing intensity, but a fearful one. Both seemed in confusion and intrigued by the other. For a split second Faith's eyebrows raised curiously, but then she disappeared. Samson watched her silky head of hair as she placed her mouth over him.

She… he wanted his night with Zoe to return, even if it was awkward, wet and sweaty. He wanted his friends back. He had never felt more wrong in a place which was supposed to make him forget everything. His body was not agreeing with her affections.

"Not this too,' Samson muttered, "Faith. Sorry."

Faith didn't give up. She tried using her hand again, and peered into Samson's eyes with a touch of anger, but not enough to be fiery. She let go. "Alcohol usually makes this process easier, in my experience."

"I don't doubt your experience." Samson's eyes were half closed. "I'm ill."

"Inform me if you require anything." Faith stood up, pushed Samson back and sat over his crotch. "Let's hope it isn't the kind of ill I can't fix."

She was a beautiful woman. She had a reasonable skin tone and appealing make up, and yet looking did nothing either. It didn't make sense his body wasn't responding how it should. She grinded her ample hips against his non-existent arousal, clearly getting more confused and frustrated by the minute. The sensations lacked their usual intensity. His head hit the pillow with relief and lying down nearly felt like repose. Now more at ease, perhaps if he was lucky he could sleep. Why couldn't he be back in the Circle? He wanted the lyrium to stop stealing everything away.

Like his body only knew how to experience pain, his aching head doubled over to become an intense migraine. "Maker, my head." He groaned. "By Andraste's tits, just make it end!"

He closed his eyes, his head spinning, odd colours forming behind the blackness. He felt Faith's lips against his own, her breasts against his chest, but could imagine only Zoe, could see only _her_ in his mind's eye, overcome with sadness. His home might as well not exist. He was nobody in a nothing world.

"Zoe." Not knowing where he was anymore, not caring, he held onto the woman's face and kissed her. It was a deep kiss, one of longing, one that interested the fallen woman as their lips parted.

"Who is she?" Faith asked.

Samson opened his eyes, but only half registered what was in front of him. The bronze skin, the tall figure, those beautiful breasts… it was all a perfectly constructed lie.

"A friend…" Samson chose his words carefully. "Who I fucked, quite senselessly."

"Where is she from?" the woman started to take off her clothes.

Samson could only peer vaguely past her eyes and onto the ceiling as she did. "The Circle." he said absently, before he confessed the truth. "I used to be a Templar. I'm not anymore."

"You…" Faith voice halted suddenly. Samson tried to look at her. It was hard to tell, but her eyes exhibited anger. "Are you _trying_ to taunt me? What did your friends tell you?"

It took a few moments to realize that there was a dagger held up against his throat and Faith's eyes were livid. If these were his last moments, it wouldn't be so bad.

"My friends didn't tell me anything," Samson said. "I… just want to understand."

"Understand what?" Faith demanded, "Know that the Chantry is just a bunch of lies? That the Maker is evil? Why the hell do you think I should tell you anything?"

"I'm lost," Samson murmured, "I want to know why my friends wanted me to not know about you."

"Besides make you sorry you know me?" Faith put the dagger back near her skirt. "Tell me your story first, and then if I like it, I'll tell you mine."

Trying to explain to a hooker the most upsetting experiences he'd endured in recent memory, while she attempted to suck him off or do anything to get his money's worth was one of the oddest experiences of his life. He managed though. Even stranger was that the memories of the Circle made him happy enough to feel some essence of pleasure. Faith was so much like Zoe here. Her hands felt nearly identical, just as soft, even if they were cold. He wanted to know her, longed to return to passing letters and feeling like he was doing something right.

Judging by the way Faith's lips were caressing Samson's neck, she approved of his answer. "I don't care that you're withdrawing from the Chantry's poison," she explained when he finished, "I want you to think of Zoe while I tell you _my_ story."

This wouldn't be difficult to do. Samson's mind was already racing with the hot, steamy thoughts of the young butterfly from the Circle, the one he'd tried so hard to impress, the lady who seemed to find him more amusing for his screw ups. He took a shuddering breath, feeling too many conflicting sensations as Faith finally managed to grab his length with her hands. Finally, at least _that_ hadn't broken from withdrawals. Infuriated by his situation, he craved to be inside Faith like the mean, cruel patron she feared him to be, the bastard he was becoming more and more frequently outside the embraces of a woman.

"My soul mate was a mage," she said, and there was a hint of death to her voice, as though she'd told the story many times before, "not unlike your Phillipa and Maddox. Her name was Rebecca. She was one of my charges."

"A woman," Samson acknowledged, more turned on than surprised.

"Yes." Faith said, "No one knew her by that name except me. She got the nickname "Rainie" from her talent with ice and water spells, and learned to hate her birth name as her parents willingly gave her away. I fell for her first, but she didn't take long to catch up. We tried to stay away from each other, of course. I had no experience with women and neither did she. We met up too many times to count, until one of my closest friends betrayed me. Apparently he was a jealous sort. Guylian made Rebecca tranquil and kicked me out, not unlike what Meredith did to you." The woman sighed. "I can't believe I respected and trusted that pathetic excuse for a Knight Commander."

"I'm sorry," Samson muttered, although deep down, he found it hard to imagine Guylain being nasty. Maybe this particular incident touched a nerve.

"It was quite the story for a long time. Many protested and said Guylian just had something against two women being together." Faith shrugged. "But every story is forgotten eventually. I suspect Rebecca doesn't remember me anymore."

Rebecca. That name was familiar, although only the First Enchanter, Knight Captain, and those with titles called her Rainie or Rebecca.

"You…" Samson couldn't figure out how to form his next sentence, in a strange state between being incredibly aroused and in a lot of discomfort.

"I thought your shakes and general unwellness looked familiar, but I didn't want to assume," Faith explained, "I left in 9:19. A while ago now."

This affirmed that Samson was correct in guessing she was in her thirties. Not only that, but the woman had been dismissed around the same time all the uproar about Guylian occurred. The Knight Commander got hanged a few years later and Meredith took the man's place. Within all the chaos, it was easy to see in retrospect why Faith had been forgotten.

"The lyrium…"

"Don't talk to me about that shit!" Samson said without thinking, in an immediate panic. The little pleasure he savoured instantly faded as the nightmare of reality took its place. "I don't want to think about it."

"I reacted the same once upon a time," Faith said disgruntled, "I still take it. I need it more than I ever did in the Gallows. When I have a bad day here I'll drink some rather than wine."

"You're weak!" Samson spat, overcome with rage. He didn't know why he had gotten so angry, he just knew he had to escape whatever path Faith had chosen. "You're just a pathetic wench with a cut throat heart and no sense of justice!"

Faith hit Samson's thigh in retaliation, but her voice was even more threatening. "Don't call me cut throat _anything_, and don't you talk to me about justice, lad."

That was proof as any that the rumors about her had been true.

Samson couldn't react. He felt so uncomfortable, even though a week had only passed, that physical violence barely felt like a flick on the hand. Faith was done being sensible. In her eyes there was an anger he had only seen in himself.

"Don't you dare talk to me like I didn't try! Like I'm not _still_ trying!" she shouted. "You're no better than your Templar friends. You're the pathetic one."

The words hardly registered in his head. All Samson knew was fear, and he didn't want to be like her. "I'll never be like you!" he roared, "I'll overcome this. I know I will."

The words were empty. He knew he didn't believe them, but he had to fight his nightmare.

"I wish you luck," Faith said bitterly, "I hope for your sake that your symptoms are kinder than mine."

"It has nothing to do with luck," Samson retorted. "If I use my head…"

Faith laughed. "If that's what you think, you obviously don't have any idea how addiction works."

Samson didn't mean for the conversation to turn so sourly. He didn't mean for his head to spin so violently that his stomach decided it had enough. Unable to speak another word, or take in the angry stare from Faith's eyes, Samson rolled over and vomited all over the carpet. It came out in vicious spills that stung his throat and burned his eyes with tears. The withdrawals just didn't stop. His headache didn't stop. This pain was needless and stupid. The acrid smell only amplified his inability to function.

As bright yellows and pinks clouded his vision, a panicked cry pierced his ears, the shriek of a possessed mage being put to rest. Like seeing it through another's eyes, Samson watched Faith back away into the head of the bed, not caring that there were chunks of vomit on her bare thighs. Something had shaken a tidal wave inside her. To a bystander, it might even look like she'd been the one who'd thrown up over herself, that she was ashamed of her drunkenness. If... she was drunk.

"You don't understand!" Faith sobbed, "It wasn't my fault!"

Samson turned his head away from the vomit, thinking he should help clean, but his body wouldn't do what he wanted. Her pleas, as if to someone greater than herself, made Cullen's night terrors look like pleasantries. Samson had rarely seen crying so disturbing. Maybe the woman was carrying the same sort of grief Samson was. He wiped one of his hands on the bed covers and tried to reach out to her, wishing he could speak, but her tears kept falling. They wouldn't stop.

"_I _didn't do it_,_" she cried, "I swear - I didn't mean to. I didn't do it on purpose."

Samson felt every word like a stab to the stomach. The times he had thought those same words were uncanny. Yet, despite his sympathy there was an element of disgust and rage when he looked at her. It was all sorts of mixed up emotions. Maybe that's what she felt about him, why she was considered unstable. He didn't know if he was happy he'd met her or not, but upset definitely didn't encompass the variance of sensations in his body. He groaned, and wanted to tell her to calm down.

"P-Please! Help m-m-me," Faith begged. She covered her eyes and tried to stop crying, "I didn't mean to, it wasn't my fault, I just wanted to do the right thing, I know I'm weak. It isn't my fault."

Not sharing her feelings, the man began to understand here was something deeply troubled about her, though he felt too sick to expand on his thoughts.

With a rattling of keys the door opened. Samson only watched as Faith ran her fingers through her hair. Madame Lusine's voice was anything but calm.

"Both of you get out," she instructed, "Get dressed. I want quiet when I clean. _Out_."

"Don't make me touch him!" Faith shouted, pointing, while he was _right there_.

The Rose's manager sighed, "You should have known better, dear."

She'd obviously dealt with a distressed Faith before

There was a rummaging of feet and an intimidating voice entered his ears. "By my ancestors…. Let me deal with this."

Corwin had come to the rescue.

Faith's hysteria lingered in Samson's head as he was assisted with putting his armor back on and brought back to the Barracks over the shoulder of his bunk mate. There was no speaking. There didn't need to be. The man realized he was a little jealous of her. She could make a decision, was probably able to sleep and function. Maybe none of this struggle was worth it.

Samson groaned as more vomit poured from his numb lips onto the spotless Hightown pavement. The gentle rock of boots was not comforting in the least. Unable to feel relief at the cool air on his face, the ex-Templar's consciousness faded before words of disgust could form.


	7. Sonus - Noise

"Corwin told me about what happened to you the other night," Ewald said slowly. He crossed his legs and rested his elbows on his knees, looking pensive. "I would have thought you'd have recovered by now so I am left to assume your withdrawals have something to do with this."

Samson sat in the chair opposite the desk, feeling apprehensive. He wanted to say that withdrawal had nothing to do with it, but couldn't. The memories of the Blooming Rose were both foggy and painful, and being here in the Captain's office was even more so. His superior's face didn't look right, nothing did. The ex-Templar's eyes felt heavy and his thoughts were like sludge. "Am I right to assume as much?"

Samson had been certain sleeping through a shift was bound to happen at some point, so he had done everything in his power to prevent it - resting whenever he could, trying, rather pathetically, to barely function. His body quivered and he crossed his arms to stop it, though it didn't help. The feverish-like trembling almost weren't worth trying to hide anymore, but he would keep trying, even if it meant he couldn't respond.

"Samson," Ewald said sternly, "I can't send you on duty like this. Tell me the truth, please. I have a lot to do and I don't have the patience for any avoidance tactics."

_Just talk you idiot_, was all Samson could tell himself, yet he didn't have the heart to own up for his disability. He didn't want it to be held against him, but there seemed to be no way to avoid admitting the truth.

"What would you like me to do, Guardsman?" Ewald asked, quickly losing patience. "Unless you can tell me with absolute certainty that your withdrawals will be over in the next few weeks I can't have you freeloading in the barracks. You will have to find somewhere to stay until it is over."

"I don't know how long it will take," Samson uttered. His voice didn't sound like his own, a husky imitation of another guard. Panic began to enter his voice, an anxiety he had managed to suppress up until now. "I don't have anywhere else to go. Please! Let me stay."

There was no way in hell he was going to knock on his parents' door, and the Gallows wasn't an option either. He had never sounded so desperate. Samson wasn't one for begging, but the situation called for it.

The Captain appeared taken aback. "Look, I… I understand this is a troubling situation. I'm not in the best position right now to keep you on good will alone. Let yourself catch up on sleep today so you can go on patrol tomorrow. With all the refugees I have a lot more applicants and it wouldn't be efficient to let you lounge around. If this happens again I'll have to ask you to leave, so if this position means that much, lyrium might be your only option."

"But I don't want to take it," Samson murmured, "It would make what I'm going through now worthless."

It would turn him into Faith, a useless nothing forever dependant on a substance he didn't need. He wasn't weak like her! He had far more endurance than any of the Guards in this Barracks. They didn't have to go through this shit.

Some of Samson's thoughts must have shown on his face because Ewald sighed. "I see you're not thinking straight, Samson." He rummaged some papers on the desk, as though watching Samson was painful. "I don't have a lot of experience with lyrium withdrawal but your case seems to be particularly nasty. I apologize, but as determined as you are, I can't let you use the Barracks as a place to rest your head. If this happens again you will face the consequences. Do you understand?"

"Not happily," Samson heaved, "but yes. I'll try to reach a conclusion for you, Captain."

The last of the conversation was a blur as the ex-Templar's mind raged with angry insults and fantasies of all he wished could occur: like burning down the building, for example. A mere ghost of himself, he hardly felt his feet against the floor as he left the room.

* * *

Now in his room, Samson picked up the letter again, desperately wishing to escape his confusion. Cullen's words did not turn out to be a comfort.

_Samson,_

_I can even tell from your handwriting you are not handling your withdrawals well. Maker's breath, I can't imagine what it must be like. It is a difficult situation to be in. I can't tell you myself what the best course of action is. There are many influences at work here. If it was where you are I would try go off lyrium but I have family to confide in. I have places to stay and people to support me. Your family are not in the best position to support you, if they were ever._

_I… I'm sorry, my friend. I wish I had more guidance to offer. I'd volunteer to meet you in person but I am uncertain how we could organize it._

_Cullen_

Samson scrunched the letter into a ball. Rage filled him. A spontaneous burst of anger had crossed him many times in the past week, but every time, it got him one step closer to breaking point. Thankfully, he wasn't about to crumble into a heap just yet.

He wanted to talk to Cullen, Zoe, even Phillipa, offer to go out for drinks at the Hanged Man, but what more advice could they offer him? Next to nothing.

Samson headed for the showers. The hot water masked the symptoms for a time, until he tried to fall back asleep again.

"Dinner time's over, but I saved you some," a rumbling voice said.

There were only the flickers of candle light behind his closed eyelids.

"Corwin?" Samson groaned. He opened his eyes. The one who had told Ewald the story was in front of him, a blurry mess, sitting on that chair in the middle of the room. A plate was balanced on his knees. "Can I throw up on the rug too? I've had enough of this place."

His personal purgatory made every single location a living nightmare. It was sickening to admit this to himself.

With a scraping of a chair, Corwin's voice grew nearer. "You didn't want to talk about your withdrawal last time I asked. Do you trust me now?"

Trust or not, Samson had to do something.

"Ewald's gonna chuck me if I don't take the poison," he groaned. His throat burned as he spoke. "I don't want to leave. I just want this to be over."

Corwin didn't answer. He was probably thinking about it.

"Help me," Samson choked out, "Please. You're one of the only blokes here I don't want to kick in the balls."

"Nath told me of your dilemma," he admitted.

Typical. That elf probably told everybody.

"Do you really think lyrium withdrawal is worth it?" Corwin continued, "You might spend the rest of your life not being normal. Who knows what decades of usage have done to your body."

"I should take it, then?" Samson wondered, his speech disjointed from fatigue. "You wouldn't think I was weak."

"I've never been on lyrium. I can't know what it's like. Who am I to judge?" Corwin said. An inkling of anger rose in his voice, "You won't have to suffer like this if you do."

For a moment, Samson considered it, but then he remembered Meredith. She would want him to give up. There was no way he was going to give her the satisfaction.

Cullen was right. He needed support.

"I wish my parents _pretended_ they cared, just for one second," Samson mumbled, "then I could stay at their sorry excuse of a house, but no." He heaved a shuddering breath. Samson had not spoken to anyone about this for a long while. It seemed odd to tell the story again. "I don't know why I wanted to be a Templar in the first place. I have no clue what I was thinking at the time, and I can't figure it out looking back on it either."

"I came here to get away from my father," Corwin said with a shrug, "I understand how for some of us it's impossible to associate with family."

"They don't care," Samson grumbled, "They say it was because I reminded them of a child they lost, but I wonder if they made the whole thing up. Pathetic excuses. I've seen them on occasion in Kirkwall over the years, but they don't make the slightest effort. Maybe they're just broken. Either way, I don't need them."

It was one of the most logical thoughts he'd have over the past few days, and as much as he didn't need them, he needed _somebody_.

"Did you like being a Templar?" Corwin inquired tentatively. Somehow, it was nice to talk about something emotionally charged, to make him forget the physical discomfort he was in. His headache was returning with a vengeance.

"It was great. Of course I liked it," Samson said firmly. Maybe it sounded like a lie with his tone, but he had never doubted this, even when guarding a door tested his patience. "I loved feeling like I was contributing to the greater good of Thedas, doing something useful. People knew who I was; I was respected and cared for."

His thoughts halted for a moment and Samson decided he wanted food. Corwin seemed to understand and passed him the plate. Balancing it on the bed covers the ex-Templar made sure the scent wouldn't make him nauseous before picking up the fork.

"I was recruited when I was six or seven. My mother was at the Chantry so often, it seemed like a position she thought was honourable." Samson rambled, "Maybe I wanted to impress her. She was very eager. Some of the other boys I met there were going to join too. I could have wanted to be with them to get _away_ from my life, see what else was out there. Either way, I don't regret my choice."

Samson pierced an uncut slab of roast pork with his fork and chewed on a corner.

Corwin acted as though he hadn't heard. "Did your encounter with Faith…uh…?"

Did he want to know if Samson had given her a kiss goodnight?

The ex-Templar swallowed with difficulty. "She didn't exactly invite me to bunk at her house."

The food wasn't being instantly rejected, so Samson took another bite. Corwin was silent for so long that approaching footsteps could be clearly heard from outside the room. "If you want my help," he suggested slowly, "I will take you to speak to Faith again. She's the only one we know of who has any knowledge on withdrawals."

It was either brave the Blooming Rose or endure the loud questioning of the other Guardsmen.

Shit.

* * *

Never mind she was crazy, or their last conversation had gone horribly wrong, Corwin was convinced that the situation could be turned around, and wasn't about to let him break free. Not again. Bollocks. At least he wasn't wearing armor this time around, so the cold air was refreshing on his overworked system.

"If she'll even talk to me," Samson said wearily.

Corwin had a strong grip. "Madame Luisine is a very understanding woman." he said calmly, "I can talk her into it."

Samson wanted to ask how the hell anyone could convince that old hag anything, though was too exhausted. "Let's just get this over with."

"If you apologize…"

"We'll see."

Samson didn't remember much of what happened next. He felt drained, exhausted, and colours blotched the scenery but he didn't care. Right now he could sleep forever and be content with his existence.

He found himself on a chair at the bar of the Rose, resting his head on the ledge. The noise of people around him was more like buzzing insects. This wasn't even existing, but something worse.

"Samson," Corwin said quietly, his voice distant, "I managed to get you an audience."

The words struggled to register in his brain when someone hit him on the back of the head.

"Ow!"

A cynical laugh entered his ears. There was only one person with a laugh like that, and it wasn't Madame Lusine.

"Works like a charm," Faith sniggered from behind him.

Was a free hit over the head how she had been coerced into speaking to him? Samson groaned. If only Corwin could do all the talking.

"Could you give us a moment?" she asked Corwin.

The ex-Templar didn't see, though he assumed his bunkmate must have nodded. It was too noisy to tell if he had walked away, but judging from Faith's voice, he had. For someone who had been shrieking in his ear a few days ago Faith was awfully calm now. It was almost unnatural.

"I've had a busy day," she said. Samson heard the seat next to him squeak. "So I hope you don't make me regret talking to you… again."

Swallowing all dignity, Samson raised his head. Faith's expression wasn't unfamiliar. He looked into her eyes and saw how exhausted she was, how much Faith must long for rest. The lines in her forehead were thinly concealed with make up. He tried to hide his air of nausea as he responded.

"You… I didn't mean to…" he wanted to say 'make you go crazy' but thought better of it, "I'm sorry."

They were forced words. Some part of him did mean them. He was more shocked she hadn't been more understanding, especially if his suffering was known to her. The insight wasn't helpful now, but at least his malady stopped him from blurting out garbage.

Faith crossed her arms, and the corner of her lips twitched. "Why did you hesitate?"

Samson gulped. "Nothing worth mentioning." He paused again. "I… I'm not in a great…situation."

It sounded so stupid and obvious! Faith seemed to agree, for she chuckled. For a split second he could see the Templar in her, and it was reassuring.

"I'm sorry too," she said finally.

Samson jolted upright. "You what?"

"I owe you an explanation -you more than any of your other Templar friends," Faith said smoothly.

Amazed, Samson felt her hand touch his back, quite awkwardly, as though she didn't know how to, which was ridiculous considering her job, nonetheless… he relaxed. Perhaps she was clearing away her façade.

"I haven't reacted like that in a long while," she explained, "the dip into insanity."

_Well, someone had to say it, _Samson thought, just pleased it wasn't him. "I suppose that's why you don't see the Templars?"

"My reactions are my responsibility. _Placing limits _are my responsibility," Faith said, her hand softening on his back. "I have never told anyone this, but… my time attempting to withdraw from lyrium was a traumatizing experience." She waited, and examined his expression carefully. "I don't like to remember, but there are some moments that force such memories upon me – almost like blood magic. I still have nightmares about it sometimes, and seeing you unwell was like reliving that nightmare."

She looked slightly sick, and Faith rubbed Samson's back. He was slow putting the information together. "Then… it wasn't something I said?"

Faith recoiled slightly. "I experience a lot of hardship when I see, hear, or smell vomit, whether my own or others'. I never used to drink much, but I have been averse to getting drunk since my withdrawal. Anything that induces nausea deeply distresses me."

Samson was starting to understand, although he had not gone into a frenzy over seeing other people like that. "I get it a little. My old roommate at the Gallows used to be jumpy like that, though it was about something else." He examined her expression. _Did something bad happen?_ had an obvious answer, as withdrawal was an near constant sufferance. Perhaps there was another way he could make sense of the story. "I don't completely get it though. Did the withdrawal do something especially wicked?"

Faith watched him carefully for a moment. "Yes. I thought it would be simple enough for you to use your imagination and figure it out on your own."

"Not really."

Faith looked downtrodden.

"You don't want to say?"

"No."

Now Samson didn't know how to reply. He sat silently. Then remembering she hadn't answered his question about Templars, he asked, "Is it because of the withdrawal you don't see Templars through your work?"

Faith hesitated. "It's complicated."

"Really?"

She scowled at him. "If you're mocking me, I'll throw you out of here."

"I'm not," Samson insisted, taken aback by her change in mood.

Faith appeared unconvinced. She crossed one leg over the other, perhaps thinking. In a slow, nervous manner, she managed, "When I started working here, a number of the Templars I used to call brothers thought it was hilarious to tease me and say how low I had sunken."

Samson would have chuckled out of discomfort if he was in higher spirits. Instead, it probably looked like he grimaced. "I don't know what they're on about. I greatly respect those who work here. Always have. Must be a tricky job. I mean, you must get blokes who don't know what they're doing all the time."

The woman gave a shrewd smile. "It is far more irksome to have a customer who boasts about their ability. Most of the time, they have no greater prowess than any other person. Sometimes it makes them inflexible with their technique."

"That wouldn't be me," Samson said, with a grin, "I know I'm hopeless."

"I've heard that before too," Faith said, with a numinous expression. "However, unless they have paid me to do so, it is not my job to provide them with feedback." Then her gaze evaded his, "You won't laugh if I tell you about my withdrawal?"

"No."

He was still bewildered that her initial response was to expect the worst of Templars. If anything, perhaps her story could provide him with insight about how he could manage his withdrawal.

She took a deep breath. "I don't know if this is difficult to believe, but my withdrawal almost killed me."

Samson couldn't think of a response that warranted less humour. At that moment a waitress offered him some water and he tentatively took it. With a distasteful expression, Faith seemed to imply that she had no interest in a drink, so the waitress departed.

"Shit," was all he could think of saying.

"I don't know what was different about that night but the beast dug its claws into me. I felt simultaneously everything and nothing at the same time – pure, intense agony."

Samson was saddened that he could relate to that feeling. Finding his voice, he inquired, "There was no warning at all?"

_Please don't say no,_ he thought.

"No," Faith replied, confirming Samson's fear, "I suppose after being so ill for so long, feeling like you're dying is normal. Anything out of the ordinary for a healthy person is just another day for someone in lyrium withdrawal."

"How long was it until… it got that rubbish?"

"I think I was two months off the poison." It was clear from her expression that her memory of those times was foggy. "I don't remember hitting the ground, but I felt pain. Hot. I could hardly breathe. I feel my throat burn. Next thing I know, I'm spewing non-stop. There was a man asking me if I'm alright." More than Faith's voice started to shake. "Sorry. Give me a moment."

Samson did. It wasn't hard to stay quiet these days.

Faith took a few deep breaths, covered her eyes in a second of respite, and then kept going. "I wake up in a house. _His_ house. He was an apostate. He tells me I was on the verge of death." She sounded guileless, how he imagined her ten years younger self would. "He ran home with me in his arms. I guess it was lucky I was roaming the streets at the time. Apparently at some time in my delirium I said I was off lyrium. He took some from his personal stores and forced it down my throat. Without my knowing, he saved my life."

"Madness," Samson muttered.

"I can't describe it," Faith said blankly, as though reflecting on these moments for the first time, "I despised him for saving me, at the same time I wanted to spend the rest of my days making it up to him. I don't know what I think of life, even now. I feel like he stole the answers from me."

"Who was he?" Samson inquired, trying to push the immediate comparison of Maddox from his mind.

Faith shrugged. "He never told me his real name. I got the sense that he didn't know what to think of me either. He said when he figured out what I had been – his first thought was to kill me. But he said he had never seen such profound suffering before – not even in the Circle – so he helped me, whether I wanted it or not. When I awoke, once the apostate explained what had happened - I felt relieved of pain for the first time in so long. It was overwhelming. Happiness and sadness at once…. He told me I should never have to suffer like that again, that I was welcome to use his lyrium if I ever needed it, so long as I didn't report him. I broke down. Whenever I am reminded of those moments on the verge of losing consciousness… well… you saw what happened."

Pushing the glass to his lips, Samson swirled the water between his teeth and took a few moments to swallow.

"I didn't mean to react how I did," Faith said, "I hope you can understand."

"Do you still get your lyrium from him?" Samson asked.

"I stopped about five years ago when he disappeared," Faith said, "but he told me where to find some of my own. I can assist you if you need it." Seeming calmer, she gave Samson a hearty pat on the back. "So what I should have said before – how are you managing your withdrawal?"

So Samson explained, in far less words than he should, but Faith seemed to understand his broken language.

"The Dead Maker hates us," she said grimly, "You'll have to excuse me, but I can't help you, Samson, not unless you have _some_ income."

"I didn't think you could," Samson said in a dry voice, "I don't know what to do. Do you know if recovery from lyrium withdrawal is even possible?"

"It differs from person to person," Faith rationalized, "I've met two others who have withdrawn. One was successful, the other I didn't hear back from."

The thought that withdrawal was fatal had barely crossed his mind previously, and it was an unwelcome fate. He didn't fancy suddenly dying without warning. Suddenly his hatred for the woman turned into an intrigue. He didn't admire her, no way, although there was information she could part to him here. Maybe Corwin hadn't been completely off his nutter.

"Do you think I have a chance?" Samson choked out, "Or am I just being an idiot trying?"

"I wish I could say," Faith said sadly, "Guessing is like trying to read blindfolded."

"Great," Samson grumbled, and he asked what he desperately wanted to know, "If you could go back and change it, would you stop that apostate from saving your life?"

She said she wasn't sure how she perceived life – was life with lyrium terrible for her?

"Life is unpredictable for me," Faith replied, "It is easier, yes, but not easy. Working here helps me block out the singing and cravings. I try to keep to a schedule like in the Circle, but I think my body has broken itself. Sometimes I slip and I regret it. If I think on it too much I am outraged for how dangerous lyrium is. Particular events, like seeing you the other night, make me wish I had died. However, living has its merits if you can find meaning in it. "

_Meaning_ was a horrible word, for Samson's current existence had little of it. He knew that if he didn't have to rely on lyrium his life would be better. Yet he recognized the singing Faith spoke of, for he'd heard it in his dreams. It was an unpleasant musical number to recall, a tune that brought out every crack and flaw in the universe and plastered it over each wall in one's head, something inescapable, desolate and derelict.

_I don't know what I think of life, even now. I nearly feel like he stole the answers from me._

Samson didn't need to ask if Faith felt her life had meaning. The bloodshot look in her eyes said she craved for more than distractions from a song, but comfort for her saddened heart. The pain of losing all those who had supported her was as permanent an injury as the dark lines under her eyes, a dysfunction no layer of make-up could hide.

For _his_ life to have meaning, Samson realized he needed to see his friends, right or wrong aside.

He prayed to what was left of the Maker that it wasn't too late.


	8. Molior - Exert

Faith chuckled. "With those squinty eyes being on the blue poison would suit you well."

Samson's teeth nearly broke from how hard he was pressing them together. "And I was beginning to tolerate you."

"I'm flattered." The woman smiled rather grimly. "That's one of the nicer things I've heard today."

The guardsman paused and sipped his water. As mute as the drink was to begin with, this glass felt like he wasn't replenishing his thirst, an ever present reminder of how normalcy was stolen from him. Of course he wanted his life to be _easier_, even if it was still a struggle, but what was the point if the withdrawal wasn't fatal? If he spontaneously collapsed in the middle of a duty, perhaps he would die before the remedy could be administered. Trying to picture the retching woman on a street, Samson's stomach plummeted as he recalled what Nathara told him on his first patrol.

_If you do not make a decision, Guardsman,_ she had advised_, you are leaving your life up to chance, and the winds of fate may just pull you into a cyclone._

The man had said he'd rather lose his mind than be reliant on lyrium, but that didn't mean _dying_.

Samson's fingers slipped on his glass, suddenly alert with panic. How would his friends or new work colleagues respond? Nathara would probably screw up her nose while dragging his corpse away, _'He had a chance to make the smart decision. The man's demise was no fault but his own'_. Samson almost wondered if the elf would spit on him, _'he could have been far greater alive than dead_.'

Cullen would be guilt stricken. Samson imagined the disappointment that would wreck his handsome features if he found out. Zoe… there was no knowing if she would be remorseful or apathetic. What _was _he to her? Meredith…

He caught the whore's gaze. Her elegantly groomed eyelashes flickered at him inquisitively, like the antennae of a beetle seeking knowledge, while remaining serene and stolid.

The Knight-Commander would laugh. He could almost see her triumphant, contemptuous leer as she used his death as ammunition against all other Templar's who wanted to leave. The tragedy would _please_ her!

That fate, however tempting it might be, was unacceptable. Samson refused to leave the earth with a bad impression, as a memory that could hurt others. He would die leaving a legacy that would inspire the weak and frail. The guardsman wanted to make a difference, whether he was home or not.

Faith raised an eyebrow, as though sensing a change in Samson.

Maybe he could have a small amount just in case death was waiting for him. It was dangerous, certainly, but better than the alternative. If he was destined to live his life like the woman beside him, even Meredith's condescending stares would cease to hurt him. At that point, he was no different to the permanently ill and any cruelty was a sign of irredeemable malice.

"Can you give me some?" Samson requested, sounding far blunter than he liked.

Faith must have taken offense as she tensed, and said in a voice that didn't sound like her own, "Why?"

"I don't want to die," Samson replied honestly, "but I don't want to feel like shit forever either."

His previous superior would not see him like this. If Meredith ever so much as smiled at him he would explode with rage.

Faith appeared as if an arrow had narrowly missed her head. "Why should I?" she shot back in the same steely tone, "What good are you to me?"

Samson suddenly remembered he was being watched by Corwin. His neck aching, he turned and indicated with looks alone that he didn't need babysitting. After some hesitation, his friend nodded and approached Madame Lusine, possibly for an extra pair of eyes, a man to bed or both.

"I have coin," Samson murmured, not sure why he was keeping his voice down, "and I can hand them to you without vomit on them."

Faith knew how to haggle. She crossed her arms, her defences only rising. "I want double."

It was unclear why she had gotten resistant, but Samson kept trying. "How about information on your suppliers?"

"Triple." Faith affirmed, almost proud for having dominance over him. She straightened her back and pushed out her chest.

Samson wasn't fooled. "What are you trying to prove, sister?" he demanded, "we are still part of the Circle, we should be allies."

Faith's posture softened but she glared at him like a hungry snake. "I want to forget that place."

Samson smirked, inspired by a sudden idea. He moved his chair closer to the woman and leaned toward her ear. "Can I convince you to lower the price if I do _your_ job for a little while?"

Faith's eyebrows jumped a good centimeter. "That depends," she contemplated, "Are you the customer and how long is 'a little while' by your standards?"

* * *

Samson wandered through the streets while Faith finished the last of her shift. Unusually, he felt light and it was easy to move, like he was finally normal again. However the air had a frightening chill that reached his bones like wasn't wearing anything at all.

At least he wouldn't be alone later. That was an improvement.

He walked around the abandoned market place and crossed a familiar face on the main path.

"Samson," Corwin said slowly, "Why aren't you inside?"

"Wasting time," Samson admitted, smiling grimly, "I will be resting in another's arms tonight."

Corwin's cold expression seemed to brighten. "Will you be able to get back in time for your shift tomorrow morning?"

"Yes," the former Templar grumbled. "Don't worry."

His bunkmate appeared stressed. "If you're not back by dawn I'll be checking with Madame Lusine. I'm doing a night watch so it doesn't bother me. I don't want to see your career be so short lived, no matter how unwell you are."

Samson lowered his eyes. He didn't know why, but the amount of investment Corwin had placed in him was disconcerting. "I don't see why you fucking care."

Guardsman Corwin was so reserved it was unusual that he had taken a liking to Samson. Perhaps the introvert didn't have much fondness for the rowdy antics of the others in the Barracks either.

"It is not much different, the Circle and the Barracks." Corwin's hands clenched into fists. "I think you will come to see that in time…eventually. We are comrades, aren't we?"

The ex-Templar hesitated; surprised Corwin had any feelings underneath his withdrawn, hard-as-nails exterior. In the pale glow of street torches, it was hard to see what emotion it was. Perhaps the man didn't express it in his face.

"You are the closest I have to a friend in his place," Samson muttered finally, "but my emotions have been severed, like I ceased to exist after I left the Circle. I'm not sure they can or ever will come back."

Corwin, as per his laid back nature, simply nodded, but his face was gravely shadowed. "_Eventually_," he repeated.

As though Corwin didn't want to hear Samson's pessimistic reply, the man nodded his head in acknowledgement and departed. Samson watched until Corwin had disappeared from view, unsure of how to classify the experience.

He pulled his eyes away and jumped. The pavement and surrounding buildings had a ghastly hue, similar to the smog created by demons in the Fade, his fingers smudged and steamy. Had Corwin been a demon?

_I have to get back,_ Samson affirmed. At least if he started vomiting he would be close to a garderobe.

He had barely reached the Viscount's Keep when a pair of bright eyes caught his from across the strip. Their owner was unmistakable, even meters away. Meredith's red covering for her head nearly glowed in nightfall.

Not wanting to cross her, Samson darted to the pavement in the opposite direction.

"Do you really think your endeavors will even come close to adequacy, young man?"

Samson let out an audible hiss as he raised his head, wanting to set her wrinkles alight. "Who are you to make that assessment?"

Meredith placed a hand on her hip, her outline blurred. "Don't dismiss my decades of experience, Guardsman." She chuckled. "Every time I trust another I learn time and time again that people do not change." She approached until Samson felt her icy breath on his face. "Men only get heavier like a bolder and sink to the bottom of the sea. You'll do the same. You think your inflated ego inspires strength, a power, but it is a lie."

"Really?" Samson raised an eyebrow. "You've got a lot of confidence for an old hag."

The Knight Commander ripped her hand through the air and with a burst of an invisible force Samson was thrown backwards onto the ground. He yelped and instinctively tried to use Templar powers back, but nothing happened. His head ached and the world spun instead.

At the very moment his aching hand found the hilt of his sword, Meredith drew hers. Her sharp boots tore through into his skin. He bit his tongue in shock and held back a groan.

"I do, and always will, find my way back to the surface, Samson."

The smile that crinkled her face was so disgusting Samson was pleased to kick her away. Enthused to slicing her in two he slowly got to his feet and, dizzy, dropped his sword. Meredith's weapon pierced his gut. A scream exited his lips at the same moment he felt blood drip down his chin.

Samson stepped forward and reached for her neck, the colors of Meredith's face not entirely clear.

In his brief flickers of sleep he often reached to wrap his fingers around her throat. Most of the time; he woke before he could see what became of the Knight Commander. He knew they were nightmares, but he still craved for her heart to stop beating. Similar to the death penalty, his aspiration felt righteous. His self-deprivation muted his usual sense of right and wrong.

Tonight, bewilderingly, he felt her throat shudder under his fingers.

"Snap out of it, mule!" shrieked a female's voice, but it wasn't Meredith's. It wasn't even the sound of a woman.

"Maker!" Samson couldn't think quick enough to add obscenities. He let go instantly and stepped back a few places and his surroundings sharpened.

The visual in front of him quickly changed like melting ice.

Standing in front of him was not Meredith, but a pubescent girl. She could have been one of his charges in the Circle. She was short, dark skinned and her eyes shone purple in the dark. The truth, the fact he had been wrapping his fingers around a girl, was even more terrible than the thought of Meredith being around.

More than that, she had smoke issuing from her fingers, which she quickly hid in her pockets. "You're Samson."

"I don't know _you_," he responded, almost offended.

"Maker, neither do I. You just had a name tag," the girl said quickly, her voice strangely high pitched.

She ran off as though avoiding wild fire, and it took a few moments before Samson realized he wasn't wearing a name tag.

He took one large step and grabbed the collar of her robes.

"What was that?" he demanded, his mind still racing from adrenaline.

The stranger tugged. "Let me go!"

"I'll vanish into the Deep Roads before that happens."

Still struggling, the girl clenched and unclenched her hands as though wanting to do something, but she resisted. Instead, she said something that sounded like elvish.

"Tell me properly," Samson instructed, starting to grow tired. "I did something I'm not meant to so I won't tell if you don't."

Finally, the stranger stopped struggling and turned. "I _can't_ stay. I don't know what happened. I think you hallucinated? But I defended myself. My _supervisor_ is after me."

_Supervisor_… Samson thought to himself, his brain working faster now. He understood. This girl was a mage and she had escaped the Circle. This was something that went against his previous and current professional position.

"That's just bloody wonderful," he muttered with heavy sarcasm.

"Do… you know what I mean, don't you?"

Samson nodded. But he didn't let go of his grip on her.

They stood in silence.

Part of him wanted to turn the girl in. He knew how mad his friends at the Gallows would be if a charge went missing. On the other hand, he already promised he would keep a secret, and Maker, he didn't want to break that kind of promise again.

The ex-Templar nodded and the girl's mouth twitched in nervous understanding, as though they were communicating in a forgotten language.

"I don't want to see you again," he muttered, like it was a threat, "You know what I mean, right?"

The girl looked the same amount of afraid as before, though a sense of determination filled her eyes.

She didn't nod, but they shared solidarity.

In a few brief seconds, the two broke apart and Samson never saw the girl again. He didn't speak about her to anyone either.

Feeling disconnected from his morals and himself, he peered to the pavement where his sword had been moments before. There was nothing there.

How much of his hallucination had been real and what did the stranger do in the moments leading up to their interaction? Somehow his brain must have conjured the image of him in his armour, his Templar gear.

He wasn't sure what to think about that.

Samson thought of the mage girl as he returned to The Blooming Rose. He pondered what it all meant. Why hadn't he done what his job required him to do?

If the girl told anybody Samson had let her go he wouldn't be able to have the title of Guardsman and he would put his friends at the Circle to shame.

* * *

Samson was beyond exhausted when he entered Faith's house, but she wouldn't let him get away with it. She checked on how he was feeling, prepared some herbal tea and found him a metal bucket to use if he was ill. The man got the impression Faith was used to coaxing herself in her poorer days of withdrawal, but her empathy quickly ended. Without so much as an apartment tour, she pulled him in close and kissed him in the middle of the room. Her lips were supple, but Samson didn't quite feel them. He thought on the mage, the young one with pointed ears, and hoped she was never found.

With their bodies pressed together, Faith gasped in anticipation and ordered Samson to undress her. The guardsman didn't question, but removed her clothes as nimbly as he could, head still heavy.

Once the woman was naked, she held out a hand to halt him in place. "Do you have the slightest idea what to do if I didn't tell you?" she wondered. "Or are you too off-color to think?"

Samson refused to move, but Faith knew the answer.

"Pretend I'm the girl that you want," she informed him, carefully, "The one you told me about last time we were like this."

There was a clatter as Faith kicked the bucket closer to Samson's ankles. Fair enough. He didn't want to vomit either, but what help would pretending she was Zoe do?

For some reason this suggestion didn't inspire him to move. Usually it would, but he was too filled with ambivalence about Zoe, unsure of what she meant to him.

"I won't pretend you're anything more or less than yourself," Samson said, the words broken by tired pauses, "If you're not happy with that, I'll leave."

Faith's expression is unreadable, even by the glow of the bedside lanterns. She took a confident stride forward and pushed down on Samson's shoulders with more force than he expected she could muster. "I'm not used to letting someone's lust for me run wild."

Samson didn't say anything, but he brought himself to his knees, and looked up to her chest. "Maybe it is about time you did."

It was strange to be entangled with Faith, not only from her work, but the uniqueness of the situation. Samson was pleasuring her for a drug, despite being a weak imitation of himself. Faith deserved better than to desire sex from a miserable shell like him.

For once, the woman was permitted to be completely selfish, and it was clear that she knew how to get what she wanted. He got the impression Faith liked ordering him around, like she was taking revenge on the lyrium that imprisoned her.

In the time that passed Samson wasn't a person, but a symbol that represented something to her and the relationship was a bizarre one. The guardsman couldn't figure out if Faith treasured or loathed him, for her voice drummed with as much joy as it did spite. She lay on the floor while he behaved as she would in the Rose, existing for the purpose of another, their roles reversed. Perhaps because Faith was so accustomed to nakedness, Samson wasn't asked to disrobe. He didn't feel like it, either.

Time was enemy and his body told him hours were passing, but it was impossible to tell if that was the actuality. He had no ability to feel aroused or needing of her. All that existed was his need to please her because he _had_ to get the lyrium. All his withdrawal stricken body permitted was the vaguest glimpse of concentration and the remaining forte of his body to follow commands. He had his senses though they knew no consequence. She felt soft but he didn't know if he liked it. He tasted her, but she tasted like nothing. He smelled her, but his nose understood lyrium. Guardsman Samson was an endangered species reduced to pure instinct. The danger was not receiving the potion. Acquiescence was the stirring primal drive.

Zoe was a confident girl, but Faith made her look timid. Requesting a dozen ideas one after the other, Samson wondered if Faith had been inspired by the stories of her clients and had been dying to have these acts performed on her for years, maybe even a decade. Why hadn't she attempted to meet somebody? Did she not find appeal in the idea?

In his tiredness, the man could hardly keep up with her and it was clear Faith was losing her patience. The act was so erratic Samson couldn't tell when she would ever want it to stop, but the pulsations around his fingers suggested she had reached her climax at _least_ five times.

"Faith," he said, after long stretches of silent compliance. "I don't know if I can…"

The Rose woman's eyes opened. "Do you need to rest?"

"If I don't sleep I'll be so useless I'll get dismissed."

Faith smiled. "You want your lyrium, don't you?"

How dare that wench taunt him.

Samson glared at her and Faith laughed. "I'm not _that_ cruel, you know." Slowly sitting up, the woman undid Samson's trousers. "I will see if I can help you fall asleep."

To his annoyance and embarrassment, the man was so emotionally drained that nothing allowed him to hold an erection for more than a minute at a time. He quickly gave up, tied the cord together and lay on the floor, all sensation diminished.

"Get me the vial."

His voice was barely audible, his throat a husky shell, but Faith seemed to understand. Not even bothering to put on clothes, he heard footsteps as she approached a cabinet of some kind and rattled its contents.

The prostitute returned and placed the vial on the ground in front of him, still naked, a blur in the dark.

The rolling of glass on wooden floorboards entered his ears and Samson didn't want to look at the blue in its full glory. It was bright enough with closed eyelids, surreal, like it wasn't really there.

"Would you like to stay?" Faith asked, her voice faraway, "The Barracks is too far. You can sleep. I can endeavor you wake up in time."

Samson shook his head. He couldn't. Corwin was waiting for him to come back and... the man had no energy to conceptualize what the consequences would be but he didn't want to find out.

He was surprised to hear the rustling of fabric.

"If you're going to be that stupid, I'll take you there," Faith groused, "I'll carry you if I have to."

Unable to verbally decline, Samson shook his head again. That wasn't right. He had to get home himself.

He remembered the girl he let escape and how afraid she had looked. Only now he realized why it made his insides squirm, perhaps the underlying reason of why he had let her go.

The fear was familiar, and he disliked the pit of despair it wrought in his body. It was the same terror he had seen in Phillipa when she explained what happened to Maddox. Emotion that powerful would probably stay with Phillipa forever, in the same way the lyrium's singing wouldn't leave Faith, but that... _girl..._ the one he didn't know anything about could be freed to live in a way he couldn't. The mages, if truly allowed to get away without being caught, had a better chance of experiencing freedom than he did.

Knowing this filled him with discomfort.

Jerking in surprise, Faith pulled Samson by the shoulders, dragging him backwards on the floor, the lyrium rolling away to a faraway wall, now dressed again.

"Get up, Samson," she commanded, as he tried to find his will to function, "_Right now_ and prove you can move or I'll force that lyrium down your throat!"

Scrambling back to consciousness, Samson lifted his arms first before opening his eyes. He felt that even if he ate the most extravagant meal in Thedas that strength would continue to evade him. If this was withdrawal, or simply a combination of physical exertion and the lack of blue, it went beyond an ailment where company, a bath and a dose of potion washed away the ache. This fatigue was a monster with teeth and exacting needs to satisfy, necessities that were ever out of reach, draining him.

"Shuddapp…" he groaned, snatching the flask from a few paces away like a desperate beggar and placing it in his pocket.

When he stood to his feet it wasn't clear where the blood in his head rushed to, if he even had any blood left in his body at all. It hurt.

_The mage should be free, _he told himself, as though discovering how to make lightning burst from the sky without magic_, the Circle is corrupt and its prisoners deserve freedom._

For a split second he felt enlightened, as though something new could come of his life, but it ceased quickly.

Phillipa's tear stained face returned to him, as clear as it had been on the night she grieved the loss of Maddox, her soft, kind features distorted by grief. Strangely, he could remember the smell of Zoe's sweat now he had Faith's to compare it to. The room had been filled with agony and the lingering scent of desperate pleasure.

Faith and Zoe were different people, but he respected both of them for their confidence and strong sense of self, something he sorely lacked.

The sensation of Samson's hands around the teenager's throat came back in a blinding, overwhelming flash of light and colour, with all the anger that turned to panic just as fast.

Disgusting… a person who tried to control these innocent people, Templar or mage, was as monstrous as the demons they tried to avoid. With those thoughts came contempt and repulsion, and his head spun, brewing more than an emotional lurch.

Knowing what was coming, Samson grabbed the bucket just in time to catch most of the fluid expelled from his stomach, leaving his head burning as much as his throat.

How many more mages would he have to stop guarding Kirkwall? It was a huge risk to let every single one escape, but if he brought them back to the Circle…

_Meredith._

How disgusting.

Samson felt horrible self-loathing. If he returned escaped mages to the Circle like he was supposed to, he was no better than Meredith. He was doing _her_ job.

For some reason, he didn't feel longing to be a Templar anymore but an odd neutrality.

A gush of water briefly tumbled against metal.

Absently, he watched a bronze hand with a sodden rag move across the sick on the floorboards, soaking it away in even strokes. Faith was cleaning the remaining vomit from the floor, all without a single insult.

"Why do you bother?" he choked out, forcing himself to sit upright, but he did not look at her. He heard Faith walk back to the sink and the splat of the cloth against it, not stopping to clean it.

For a moment, Samson panicked, not knowing where he was. Once his pupils adjusted he felt a surge of guilt as he recognized Faith's expression, cold and unforgiving. He wished he hadn't looked at her.

"How dare you," she accused.

Why the woman had taken offense to the question, Samson didn't know, but he matched her antagonism.

The man staggered to his feet and headed toward the door, faltering with his footing.

Despite the apparent insult, the woman reached his side and held out her forearm, disgruntled. Why was she still trying to help him, when all he'd done was use her to get lyrium and vomit on the floor?

Samson stared at her arm, not knowing the why's or how's, but Faith focused ahead, not wanting to acknowledge him. For whatever reason, she was both angry but somehow still standing alongside him, determined to follow through on her word, though the man delayed. If he reached out, would she push him away?

With fumbling fingers she unlocked the door and they returned to the open air together, the frost slapping his already beaten down shell, though Faith was sturdy and patient.

The blue of her eyes were almost a comfort, a reminder that he could still help others even when compromised by poison. After all, she had the same monster in her soul baring its fangs, a fever that no softness could ease, and it rumbled from its cage.

Only after nearly tripping over did Samson use her to balance himself. Still, she didn't comfort him with a glance or a smile, but kept walking onward. He learned not to look at her either.

It was a tiresome and silent path to walk.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thank you SteveGarbage for giving me some much needed feedback on this chapter. I can not describe how appreciative I am for it. I think the long gap between updates gave me a fresh perspective on the chapter too. I hope you enjoyed it.


	9. Decussio - Rejection

Darktown was close to empty, save a number of refugees who were trying to find places to sleep. He wasn't the only one suffering. It was discouraging that the homeless weren't free, either. Maybe nobody was.

The road was dirtier, unpredictable and the surroundings less uniform than Hightown. He'd probably end up pacing in circles all night if Faith wasn't here to guide him… if that's even what she was doing.

As though no time at all had passed since they last spoke, Samson thought of a comeback to Faith's words, "If you strive to be a lonesome wanderer you don't give off the best impression of one."

He didn't phrase it as a question, for he recognized what had been in Faith's eyes when she had told him the story about the mage. Maybe she missed him, or even wanted him to come back. The nameless apostate could tell her what was meaningful about life, what it meant to be free. Samson wanted to know as well, but clearly Faith didn't have the answer.

_Is she lonely? _

The woman's blue iris's flickered into Samson's but she kept her nose pointed toward their destination. The smoky air of Darktown combined with the shimmer of makeup to make her more alluring than before, but it was a carefully placed distraction to help him ignore what was truly wrong.

Faith was unstable, Corwin had said. She's the one Templar's weren't allowed to see. She was good in the sack but not in the head. No one wanted to get on Faith's bad side. Samson had tried to please her, convince her to help him. There was now a vial in his pocket to prove there was some charity in the mistress, but if anyone saw them walking in the streets now they wouldn't be any the wiser as to what had transpired in her house.

Samson wanted to know what her bloody problem was. "You hate Templar's," he continued, "and yet you don't seem to hate me. Either I'm hallucinating or…"

Not knowing how to phrase what he hoped to convey, he went silent. Annoyed at Samson's own dependency on even one other person, he released the woman's forearm and tried to walk on his own for a few moments, but it made him outrageously slow.

Faith grumbled under her breath and stayed quiet while the ex-Templar kept focus on taking each step, trying not to lose balance each time his boots met a jagged chunk of gravel.

"I _can_ hate you if you prefer," she mumbled.

Samson caught eyes with a small boy, who quickly departed. Given that Faith held his only means to survive, hatred was something he wanted to avoid, if at all possible. Only one trait would persuade a person to behave so guarded after such a dedicated encounter.

"Do you not trust me?" he said finally.

"I don't trust anyone _completely_," Faith affirmed.

Suddenly, his boot lost its footing and scraped across an uneven ditch. Faith gave a hollow chuckle. Was the prostitute's disguise her fondness or fury, the caregiver or punisher?

Reluctantly, he gripped onto her arm again.

Their steps echoed through the streets more than it seemed possible, a reminder of how long they had remained silent.

"You shouldn't be working when the withdrawal is this bad, you know," Faith said, almost as an afterthought.

"It's not that bad," he said, glad he could walk.

"_Yes_, it is," she said, "my condition fell unpredictably, but I was basically what you are now. It makes me… wish I had not met you."

Even without him saying anything her emotions had changed.

Startled, the man peered at Faith. Even if she was tall and a number of years his senior, Samson could see not anger, but vulnerability in her. Regret. It wasn't the same as when she'd had a panic attack, but remarkable none the less. Maybe it was an act, it was all a means to trick him.

That couldn't be true. That feeling, whatever strangeness she was experiencing, wasn't the sort of expression one could fake on cue. This must have been the Faith when she was younger – less abrasive and guarding of her emotions, before one her friends turned on her.

Then again, if Faith truly didn't trust anyone with her entirety, maybe that meant she trusted him an insignificant amount, a small, negligible sliver.

He knew he cared for her as more than a stranger. If she was just a whore Samson would not have bothered to speak to her again after their first encounter in the Rose. A connection to his old home rested in her, the only one he had. It was important to grasp onto that, even if he wasn't sure why, a daring secret his mind hid away.

He had to try again to soften her, to coax away the sharp thorns between them.

"You mean you'd feel regret?" Samson suggested, "As in, you have something to lose by my death?"

Faith acted as though she hadn't heard him and didn't answer.

"What should I do?"

Faith hummed pensively. "If I was in your pitiful position, I'd take a tablespoon of that glowing atrocity. It's enough to force some life into you without completely reversing the withdrawal process."

If the woman had an ulterior motive she could be lying and luring him into a decision that wasn't in his best interests.

"What do you gain by keeping me alive?" Samson asked.

Faith's eyelids twitched in disapproval, but again, she refused to answer.

He wasn't going to let her go without explaining herself. "Maybe I never want to see you again," he challenged, hoping if he made her feel enough emotion she would answer.

The prostitute turned to meet his face, livid. "Why did you ask Madame Lusine for me then?!" she shouted, teeth bared, "You paid me double upfront even _knowing_ I was a broken piece of shit!"

In flinching, Samson let go of her arm, like someone had physically ripped them apart. Corwin was wrong, she wasn't just unhinged. That would be praise. Faith was basically inhuman, her moods like that of a dragon, and Maker knows, nobody wanted a fire breathing reptile within a kilometer of them. "Stop offloading your fucking baggage onto me," he bellowed, "you callous bitch!"

Faith stopped moving, stunned like with a spell.

Realizing his mistake, he said, "I wanted to know you." And more to the buildings, "I wanted to see what happens to the ones The Circle throws away."

Half curious, he looked back, but Faith was outraged. "You selfish cunt!" she shouted, with a thrash of her arms, "I bet you still think I'm scum!"

"Shut up!" Samson retorted, her voice worsening his headache.

Slowly, the echoes around the streets faded and the two groaned in both exhaustion and frustration. Before her change in mood, Faith had suggested staying at her place, although he refused. Would she had been forgiving if he agreed? Loyalty to Corwin and work aside, it was odd to consider someone wanted him around.

Samson took a deep breath. There were no words to describe what he thought of her with such limited concentration. Scum and cunt didn't even come close. Scum implied she was filthy, which she was only in the positive sense. She had a nice cunt.

When he had inspired pleasure in her, Faiths moods had altered from opposite sides of the spectrum for no apparent reason. She had sounded loathing when he did something very, very good. She would praise him, despise him and cry out in delight in succession.

_I despised him for saving me, and I wanted to spend the rest of my days making it up to him,_ he recalled her saying. What if by some chance he hadn't been her only victim to duality? Maybe there was no means to control her.

The two stopped walking for a moment.

Not wanting to hurt his head again, Samson picked out the vial from his pocket and, keeping his eyes fixed on Faith so he didn't have to look, opened it. Faith may hate him, but she cherished her lyrium. Perhaps being around some would calm her.

The small pop of a cork faded around the square. He grasped it in his palm as though trying to squeeze a drop of blue from the condensation.

"Tell me what you gain from me being here…" Samson murmured, "unless you have a good reason I won't drink it."

Faith seemed distracted by the vial as her expression softened and her mouth slightly opened as though intrigued. This was exactly what Samson was hoping for.

Voice strained, Samson repeated his conditions once again, but the prostitute crossed her arms and laughed cynically. "You'll never agree with my reasoning." She eyed him up and down. "And I hate that so much it makes me want to kill you."

_What by Andraste's tits does that mean? _

Bewildered, Samson felt his head pound again. Death was a very peculiar threat, and even if he was pissed off at her he didn't want _her_ to die.

If Faith was going to be elusive and play him, perhaps Samson could too. Maybe he'd play off this shame, her possible _need_ for him. "I'd kill myself before I kill you," Samson replied, forcing a friendly smile.

Even as he said it, it was surprising that he didn't feel any guilt for falsifying warmth. The comment could have been an insult for how it aligned to the core of his being.

Finally. The small manipulation worked. It was a very bizarre experience to see Faith smile, the line was a subtle nuance that only an artist could reveal, but it spoke with more logic than she could. The brief flicker of her eyelashes suggested forgiveness yet seclusion. He wanted more of it.

Before Samson could be lured by the smell radiating from the vial, he stumbled over and pushed the glass rim under Faith's nose. "Keep it away from me," he urged, and she lightly sniffed it in response.

"No." Faith held out her forearm so Samson could balance on it. "You've gotten this far."

Reasons unbeknownst to him, her trust in his choices was irritating. "You believe in me for no reason!"

"I still _try_ to believe in something!" she spat, the anger returning, "At least I can live up to my fucking name!"

This whole conversation was twisted. He was too worn out to think about it anymore. Disgusted, he put the cork back on and the vial in his pocket again, where it felt warm against his skin, an ever present temptation.

It didn't matter if he was slow. Just get her away. He needed sleep. Samson could see Hightown in the distance and he knew he could walk the rest of the way on his own.

"Crawl back to your dear Circle if you'd rather look down on me!" she finished with a huffy sniff.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Samson said with bitterness, and he admitted what he had been pondering on the whole evening, "I miss my brothers and sisters but… we are still family, with or without the Gallows. The Circle itself… isn't _dear_ to me."

It was a relief to put the information together and say it out loud, but that wasn't all. The woman's face softened and Samson savored the silence and cool air, his head ringing with the lyrium's distant song.

"You said you'll never be like me," Faith muttered quietly, "but I see a lot of myself in you."

A disconcerted quiet, something different, stirred within him. Samson met her gaze of blue, still filled with questions. While he didn't envy her situation in the least there was, for that second, an absence of hatred, like a puddle with the mud shoveled out to see the stone polished beneath it. The idea of the two being similar didn't fill him with the same revolution.

Lyrium withdrawal's worst case scenario was being dead, and he just wanted to survive. Faith had seen its darkest horrors and made it out the other side. Even if it turned its victims into helpless animals, like birds that peck through the dead to find a scrap of food, they were still here. She was, and had been, a survivor for years.

For the first time, Samson thought he felt a mild admiration for the woman. Here the line between light and dark, acquaintance and friendship was impossible to see. For a moment, he forgot he was angry at her.

"I question if the City Guard is my place too," he finally said, "It still leads apostates to the same cruelty as my friend. Those who see their loved ones turned into Tranquil hurt more than the Tranquil themselves. That is the Circle's true punishment. It's how it controls everyone inside."

Faith's expression didn't change. She paused for a while, taking in the meaning and emotion behind the words. The cool breeze made Samson shiver as the lack of movement plummeted his body temperature.

Her next smile glittered with warmth. "Any enemy of the Circle is a friend of mine."

A long pause passed where the ex-Templar was too busy admiring the wrecked beauty of her smile – wondering where the fuck it had been all this time - to think clearly. Her hallowed eyes got bigger as she moved closer to him yet again. Instead of allowing him to balance, she planted a half-assed kiss on his mouth and moved away.

The light tingling remained on his lips, a tremor that traveled through his body though he could not speak, and neither did she for a while.

"You can come over whenever you like," Faith said, "so you better not decay into a mangled corpse while you're away."

The words were morbid and disgusting, yet he found the voice behind them inviting, so much so he considered slapping himself to check he was still in the same body. With a kiss, everything wrong and distraught about their argument had blinked out of existence.

_What in the name of the Maker just happened? _he wondered, sluggishly,_ Why is she acting like a bloody possessed mage? _

She had pulled him down a torrent of her feelings, and he had finally given up and let the vicious waves numb his skin with ice. There was no ability to see where he was going or comprehend if he was being pushed underwater or heaved above it.

"Are you going to leave me here?" Samson asked.

He felt an unexpected pang of sadness that he didn't want Faith to go. With her, he didn't have to make as many life changing decisions. It was nice to not worry as much about himself for a change. To some extent, she had her life more together than he did, which was a shameful realization.

Faith's glared, but her smile remained. "I am not leaving you," she said in monotone, "You already left yourself to perish."

Before Samson could inquire if the invitation to stay over was strictly on a professional basis, or what any of the conditions were, Faith departed.

The questions were still there, but they were no longer phrases in any language he knew. She was like dealing with five different women at once, and now all of them were gone. Andraste's blood. Perhaps she didn't care about him.

The man tried to decipher what to do about the Barracks on the rest of the walk back, feeling he was returning to somewhere unfamiliar.

* * *

When Samson stomped into the bunks, Corwin was reading a book in the bed above him and gave a long sigh through his nose. "You stink of sick," he said, "Did the night not go according to plan?"

Samson tried to shake his head, but instead shrugged and showed his bunk mate the vial of glowing liquid before placing it carefully under his bed. As dangerous as it was, the bright blue concoction was a comfort. In all his years in the Circle the liquid hadn't had an odour, but there was definitely an acrid scent curling its way to Samson's brain. Whether it was a side effect of the withdrawal or his imagination was impossible to tell.

He didn't want the vial. Samson didn't only _smell_ of sick, but he felt like it too. His head was shot. Yet, the lyrium was like medicine to make all the suffering go away. It would counter the lyrium song which had gotten significantly louder in the past half hour. Samson threw off his armour to get into his night wear, slid under the covers of his bed and repeated words from The Chant of Light in his head to block out the sound.

_From every corner of the earth the Chant of Light echoed and the Maker walked the land with Andraste at His right hand. They reached the gates of Minrathous where once a terrible fire swept, the Light of redemption from the face of the world. There, the Lady of Restitution drew her shining sword and plunged it into the ground at her feet, saying…_

_They reached the gates of Minrathous where once a terrible fire swept, the Light of redemption from the face of the world. There, the Lady of Restitution drew her shining sword and plunged it into the ground at her feet, saying…_

"Are you feeling alright, Samson?" Corwin asked.

"Huh? Why?" Samson demanded.

"You're muttering to yourself."

The man felt himself blush. "Sorry. Didn't notice."

Corwin moved and his head was visible peering down from the edge of his bunk. "Will you need help to wake up on time?" he paused, hoping for a response, "You really don't care if this is the last night you sleep here?"

_Maker, don't ask me to think._

"SHUT IT!" Samson shouted, not caring that he made other bunk mates stir. All of his bottled anger at himself, Meredith, virtually everything, came pouring out at once. "I WANT QUIET."

Enraged, he closed his eyes. The covers warmed his skin but did not sink deeper.

Corwin refused to speak after that. Maker knew when he fell asleep. What little connection they had been was probably severed, but Samson didn't care. He could still smell the lyrium under his bed, could nearly _see_ the blue in front of his eyes without it being in his line of vision. The song was the worst. It was the choir of purgatory, a reminder of the world's chaos and destruction. It had never been this loud before, and by the Maker it was an annoying sound. Worse than Cullen's night terrors, even his other Circle room mate who snored for the feeling of disparity it inserted. The room had never appeared so painfully bright, even with a mere candle lighting it.

It was the lyrium's, the Circle and Meredith's fault.

No. If he drunk the lyrium right now he could have quiet and be able to sleep.

_Just smash it on the floor,_ Samson rationalized, but he couldn't. He had spent too much energy retrieving it in the first place.

Faith had given it to him without taking his money. Was this the proof that she was not malicious?

It was hard to see why he cared. She was an emotional wreck of a person.

_You said you'll never be like me,_ her words were louder in his head than when they had been spoken. _But I see a lot of myself in you._

He could swear his eyes were shut, and yet he could clearly see her spread out on the bed, all flesh and no modesty, peering him in the eyes. Their blueness was just as distracting. He could taste the fluids of her neediness on his lips, warm and slightly tangy like the lyrium.

Maker, Faith's name was misplaced. She was a demon just like that fucking vial, and demons had to be struck down.

Samson turned to blow the candle out. Darkness or light, it made no difference. He could still taste her. And it meant nothing.

The chorus of lyrium still blaring in his mind like an unfamiliar Chantry song, he reached out and felt a perfect imitation of Faith's neck with his fingertips.

"You can't resist it. I know. I can smell it," she said, and he couldn't figure out if it was an echo Faith's voice or his own thoughts.

Samson shook his head. He was too tired.

_Os iusti meditabitur sapientiam, Et lingua eius loquetur indicium. (The mouth of the just shall meditate wisdom, And his language shall be spoken in judgment.)_

Shaking from exhaustion, the ex-Templar inhaled deeply.

_She's the enemy, _he reminded himself, _and she represents everything I don't want._

He couldn't destroy her, and perhaps she never disappeared, for he turned away and tried to clear the taste in his mouth with spit.

* * *

He woke to see Corwin reading a book on a chair positioned next to his bed, his expression more withdrawn than usual. "Good evening, Samson."

"Huh?"

_Isn't it morning still?_

Samson jolted upright and looked around, but there was no one else in the room. It was blissfully quiet. There was not even the distant rumble of voices from corridors. Peering under the bed, he saw the lyrium was gone.

"What?" he gasped, staring at Corwin, "Where?"

"Here." The Guardsman pointed to a draw in the bedside table. "The guys wanted to smash it."

"Give it!" Samson said abruptly, suddenly afraid Corwin would do the same, "Please."

A bewildered glance later, the introvert handed him the lyrium. Samson took the vial and placed it under his pillow.

There was an awkward pause.

"No thank you or sorry?" Corwin asked.

Samson had trouble orientating himself. What had happened last night? All he could remember was that awful song. It was still buzzing in his head, although it was hard to tell if it was an echo or actual singing.

Faith. It was her fault.

_Beatus vir qui suffert tentationem, Quoniqm cum probates fuerit accipient coronam vitae. (Blessed is he who suffers temptation,  
Since he, with approval, shall receive the crown of life)_

"Sorry," he said, trying to sound sincere. It seemed to be enough for Corwin, for he moved the chair right against the bed.

"You are very sick," his bunkmate said, "You understand that, don't you?"

Samson replied with a confused mumble. Of course he knew he wasn't himself, but… he could still do all the same things as anyone else. "What time is it?"

"18 20."

That moment Samson recognized regret in Corwin's eyes, and it frightened him. It looked all too familiar, and yet he couldn't place where he'd seen it. The song continued to hum like a storm drowning out the sounds of life.

_O quam sancta, quam serena, Quam benigma, quam amoena esse Andrastus creditur. (Oh how holy, how serene,  
How kind, how pleasant the [Andraste] is believed to be.)_

"I tried to wake you up this morning," Corwin began, "but Ewald needed some extra help by the Docks with all the refugees. You were too deeply asleep and I didn't have time to stay." He held out two pieces of parchment. "Ewald asked me to fill these out on your behalf. There are still sections missing. You're meant to finish it, hand in your armor, sword and leave as soon as you can. We want to, but the Captain says he can't let you stay anymore." The silence rumbled like an earthquake. "I'm sorry, Samson."

Papers. Dismissal forms. His name on the top. Corwin's handwriting. Dates. Reasoning. Unreliable. A missing signature. It was the same as when he'd left the Circle. No one trusted him. He was betrayed. The man was no longer wanted.

Samson repeated the words in his head several times before the full weight of the situation came upon him. Nathara had warned him about this. Ewald did too. Corwin tried to talk to him about it. He'd blocked it out. Samson hadn't been _able_ to think about it. He'd failed. Samson hadn't thought quick enough, hadn't been smart enough. He was a fool, a crippled fool. He should have seen this coming, and yet he couldn't remember consciously choosing this outcome. It shouldn't have been this way. It was not a fate he chose. Like before.

He had slept in, worse than ever before. He didn't mean to. The warm light of the room was a lie, something taunting, reminding him of his blunder.

"Right."

Strangely, Corwin waved a hand in front of Samson's eyes. "Did you hear me?"

What an imprudent question. Maybe he couldn't think, but he could hear, he could see, he could walk… well enough!

"Yes," Samson said, "Physically and mentally, I feel everything. It is so strong it is numbness, nothingness even."

"Painful." The introvert frowned. "Samson, will you be okay?"

"I don't know," the ex-Templar said instinctively, referring to the words he had told Zoe, everyone really. How could he put in all this effort to be something else, only to have it crumble? He slowly heaved one leg over the edge of the bed and took off his clothes in order to wear something that belonged to him, not caring that Corwin could peek even when reading a book.

He was going to have to curve that signature, give it back to Ewald and take full responsibility for the situation… but it wasn't _all_ his fault. It might not even be a little of his fault. Samson failed to see what he could have done better. The answer had been so _close_, until Faith wrecked the last of his energy. He had fallen asleep too exhausted. That demon. Could he blame _her_?

Leaning unbalanced on the bed side table, he wrote his signature with a shaky hand. The letters were identifiable, but the scrawl unaccustomed, forged by somebody else. With a desperate prayer to nobody, Samson hoped that they would not be accepted. The papers spelled his disgrace. No longer could he call himself a Knight in armour, but an unusable peasant, a tragic denomination.

He packed for travelling, but with little destination in mind. Couldn't Corwin convince Ewald that to let him stay?

Samson didn't feel when his clothes went on. It all felt like a cruel lie.

His roommate didn't speak to him. They didn't speak of anything.

With a bag of clothes in hand, lyrium in his pocket and paperwork completed, he stepped in the doorway and took a final look at Corwin, the only person more than nothing in the muddled landscape.

"I apologize that this is all you saw of me." he mumbled, as his roommate nodded in acknowledgement, "I hope you'll see me next when I'm someone better."

There was doubt in his mind it would ever happen; doubt that he had said it out of honesty, but Samson left the room too swiftly to acknowledge his bunk mate's final reaction.

He didn't feel sorry or regretful. He felt too much.

* * *

Samson approached his superior's desk with more ambiguity than ever, unaware until they spoke that it was hot white coal.

"You finally woke up," Ewald said from his desk, raising his cautious gaze to observe him, "it doesn't look like it did you much good either, what a shame."

Was it that obvious? The ex-Templar glowered. The red head was just as pompous as when he'd warned Samson about his impending dismissal. There was the same troubled eyes, the same wretched hair. That asswipe couldn't give a rat's piss about how he felt. Samson felt affronted.

Holding out the papers with a sweaty hand was all the man could do not to spit on the desk. "I appreciate your help."

The words were true, but the tone behind them was disingenuous. His hatred was kindling about to erupt into flame

Ewald gently removed the sheets from Samson's hands and read them over, eyeing Samson carefully. "Yes, this is in order. Maker, that handwriting," he acknowledged, signing the papers himself and dating them. "You – I'm truly sorry it couldn't work out, Samson. I hope you will let us know how you get on."

_Says him in the fancy ass office, expensive chair, and with a bloody colored candle near the book case!_ How dare the Captain chuck him out and say he was sorry, as if he meant it. What horseshit.

"I don't believe you," Samson groused, "I can't believe you had the nerve to pretend you were helping me."

Ewald gave a shuddering sigh and rested his forehead in his hands, as though trying to massage every wrinkle from them, gently humming to himself. When that was gone, he waited. There was a long silence, a terrible one, worse than when Samson had gotten changed, far more awkward than his talk with Faith. The Captain's facial expression ceased to be readable and all empathy disappeared.

"Get out, Samson." The impatience was final, but fast like an arrow, over as rapid as it had begun. "Take care."

It happened so fast Samson wasn't sure which of the two phrases hurt more.

* * *

The power of his angry steps lost momentum from his dizziness. Why had this happened?

_Her_. _She_ made him couldn't think straight! That hussy.

Faith could go fuck herself, and she probably would. She didn't deserve his attention, his attempt to understand her. All their arguing and it had exhausted his mental capacity to be decent to his bunk mate, to feel rested. She was a selfish cunt, only wanting him to fulfill her needs. Now he had nothing! Truly nothing…

The man stopped in his tracks to level his head and took a deep breath. Everything looked too dark, or too bright, he couldn't tell. There was something he had to do, something he had planned to do for days. Speak… to someone, not Faith. No…

_I miss my brothers and sisters but… we are still family, with or without the Gallows. The Circle itself… isn't dear to me._

It sunk in that the only group of people he wanted to see were his friends.

Zoe wrote that she wanted to see him. Cullen was worried. Did he really want to worry them more? He hoped they weren't going to be condescending like everyone else.

It wouldn't matter. So long as he was pleasant, reasonably collected and not a whirlwind of insanity, they wouldn't mind. He wouldn't be like Faith. He would help them not worry.

_Ad te suspiramus, gementes et flentes in hac lacrimarum valle. (...to thee do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley, of tears.)_

Humming as the melody of the lyrium's song altered, he struggled to absorb his surroundings. Samson's legs randomly jerked as he walked, the ground felt like mud even though it was pavement.

He jumped on a boat to the Gallows, his vision blurring in and out of focus. Maker, he was starving. It was late enough that they would be eating dinner. He might be able to sneak in.

* * *

_Eia ergo, Advocata nostra, illos tuos misericordes oculos ad nos converte. __(Turn, then, most gracious advocate, thine eyes of mercy toward us;)_

Samson nearly passed out as the waves crashed against the boat, his consciousness going black at odd moments. Was it from his withdrawal or hunger? His stomach churned at inconsistent moments. This was hell, ongoing agony.

_Don't chuck,_ he told himself_, keep it down._

His clammy fingers trembled as he clenched and twirled the vial in his pocket. If he drank some, would he just vomit it back up? It was difficult to conclude if he was more desperate for lyrium, food or his friends during that trip.

* * *

The ex-Templar didn't have to look far for someone to help him. One of the Templars he recognized, Hendrick, was sitting in the courtyard, dimly lit by the few lanterns still glaring at this hour. His hair was always put up in a ponytail, but a number of untameable dark curls always stayed lose and framed his face. "S-Samson!" The man jumped, looking around. "Don't let the Knight Commander see you."

"This part is open to the public," Samson mused, surprised some of his old self had come back, "It doesn't matter if she sees me. Are my friends around?"

He was grateful he didn't have to be specific, because everyone knew who spent time with whom.

"I'll go find them," Hendrick said. It was clear his old work colleague had questions, but he didn't ask them, "Maker freeze them where they stand!"

With a chuckle, the Templar departed with the clanging of his armour. Samson smiled. It was hard to believe that he had been welcomed so gracefully in a place that was corrupt. Still, life had a habit of being deceiving.

While he waited, the man wandered to a spot in the courtyard that couldn't be seen from the windows. His clammy hand slipped on the vial in his pocket. This couldn't do.

It hadn't been that long since he had been saying his goodbye here with Zoe, but it felt like months from how much had happened. Trying to drown out the singing, Samson pondered what he would do when he saw her. He didn't think he could be affectionate in front of his friends.

After fifteen minutes –or maybe it was shorter- his friends stepped out with Hendrick in front.

"He was here a second ago," the Templar said confused, but spotted Samson quickly. "There he is."

The impact of Samson's three friends turning toward him was greatly diminished by how much discomfort he was in. It was underwhelming, like his feelings were hidden and imprisoned. He could have had a bad case of arthritis for how his joints ached and jerked at random intervals. Still, he tried to smile, and guessing by how their faces lightened, they were happy to see him too.

The clanging of boots were unnaturally loud as they approached.

"Did we miss a letter, brother?" Cullen said immediately, in the lead. "Why did you come here unannounced?"

"I haven't been thinking straight," Samson replied grimly. It was the truth without elaborating too much on his constant mental dilemmas. "It was so bad Ewald thought I should take a break from working."

He couldn't bring himself to say dismissed _again, _although by the way his friend's forehead's creased in concern they were suspicious of the story.

There was a pause, as everybody simultaneously tried to think of what to say.

It was amazing how Cullen appeared as if he hadn't aged a day, and Zoe was just as beautiful. Phillipa, however, looked sickened and pale. Her cheekbones were unhealthily pronounced, and he didn't think it was from the lighting. She was reminiscent of how he remembered her on the night she walked in on Zoe and Samson in the bed, unhappy. The lanterns cast sharp shadows on their faces, but their voices warmed him as though they were in front of a fireplace.

He met Phillipa's gaze and her lip trembled. "You… you must be so distraught."

Her voice was barely a whisper, such a weak imitation of her usual self.

They must have already figured it out. Obviously, seeing him was still difficult. Samson had to admit he felt sore to look at his friends too, but more out of guilt for the consequences that had befallen him.

Zoe's green eyes softened. "We're so sorry, Samson. Maker, I wish I had better words."

"You always have the best words, beautiful."

A ripple of uncomfortable laughs spread around the group. It didn't seem his old self was completely absent. Zoe still inspired awkward blabbing in him. It was reassuring, that even when struggling to retain conscious, he still found her attractive. In fact, she seemed calmer and more mature now than she had the last he'd seen her. There was less playfulness in her eyes, a lack of snark in her grin.

"How's Meredith?" Samson forced out, his eyes pouring on Phillipa, wanting to talk about anything but himself. The blonde was staring at Samson's collarbone.

"As usual, she is being incredibly efficient and organized," Cullen said sensibly, "although it has the side effect of making some _others_ afraid of her."

Phillipa gave a small nod, but didn't look up. Samson wondered what had gotten into her, but… it was probably Maddox. It was all his fault this had happened, and Meredith.

"Do my charges or our brothers and sisters mention me?" he asked, again, wanting to keep emotions out of it.

Zoe and Cullen looked at each other.

"At first," Zoe replied.

"Not a lot," Cullen said, almost at the same time.

Samson wasn't sure what he thought about that or even if he wanted others to be talking about him. The man wiped his hands on his trousers. Even not in uniform he still felt like he would be slapped across the face for being a deviant.

"How was being a guard?" Zoe wondered, "Do you have any new stories?"

The ex-Templar smiled at her, but peered at Cullen so he could make himself comprehensible. "There were some fights, thieves, elves escaping from the alienage, arson…"

"Surely there's more to it than that?" Cullen probed.

Samson shrugged. "I don't remember much."

He wanted to add, _it just doesn't interest me_, or,_ it doesn't feel right_, but he couldn't. Either way, it didn't matter much anymore.

They probably knew he had been thrown out of another job. What did they think of him now?

"Phillipa, how about you tell Samson about the problem with the food throwing?" Cullen asked.

The blonde met his eyes, and there was something hollow about them. "I wouldn't want to bother him."

In an unspoken way, Samson understood the ghoulish, insipid nature of Phillipa's complexion, and decided he didn't want to bother her either. Cullen and Zoe would take far better care of her than he could.

"Has anybody done anything stupid?" Samson asked. He thought he managed a grin as a flash of black and pink crossed his vision.

"Too many," Cullen said with a pained expression, although he seemed pleased they had found a topic of conversation. "I thought I'd grasped the worst of it hearing gossip, but being Knight Captain has brought a lot of it to light."

"Like the showers," Zoe said with a grin.

"Not _that_ one!" Cullen retorted, looking embarrassed, although Samson knew this meant this was the right story to get his old roommate to tell.

Phillipa managed a small smile.

"Come on, brother!" Samson said brightly, shaking Cullen's arm, "If Zoe thinks it is a good story, it must be."

To avoid attracting unwanted attention, the group moved away from the Gallows. They walked slower than usual. It was blooming obvious he struggled to move, but they didn't comment on it. Like waiting for a small child, his friends would pace a few steps and then wait, chatting among themselves all the while. Samson appreciated his friends for that. They didn't want to leave him behind.

They sat on the stone pavement near the water's edge

The meeting was far more enjoyable than Samson had originally anticipated. They had a laugh exchanging woes of their particular incidents. Even as his headache got to migraine like proportions, it made him miss the good times of the Circle, but there was still a looming grief that going back would go against everything he stood for. How could he even begin to explain this to his friends?

"I guess, this is fiddly," Zoe said slowly, bringing back the topic of their letters, "_Can_ we still help you?"

Samson looked to his friends, wishing he could say yes, but he hadn't been given enough time to think about it. "That would be nice."

The chilly breeze of the blackened ocean made his face sense of snow, like holding ice to his wounds. He liked this cold when he was sitting on a surface that wasn't moving. Samson breathed in more deeply, trying to level himself.

The gentle flowing of Zoe's long hair in the wind made him feel he was watching something unmentionable. The ethereal radiance of her skin was somehow awe inspiring. No one made the unbecoming Templar armour look as celestial as she did. Not a soul had done the same since.

Perhaps it was because of his encounters with Maddox, or even Faith, that the ex-Templar was becoming more and more comfortable with lying for the sake of others. They didn't know about the whore, but Samson doubted they would trust her. After all, she had been rejected from the Circle too for doing what was not allowed.

The answer came an hour or so later. When Samson said goodbye, all three of them insisted on giving him a hug, to which he obliged, even if it intensified his guilt. He noticed how his joints ceased to function when Zoe wrapped her arms around him. It felt so much like… before, even if she was in armour. Maker, if only Phillipa had never opened that door.

"Samson," she began slowly, "Have you eaten lately? You look thin."

The man found it extremely difficult to look into her earnest eyes, so turned to Phillipa who nodded encouragingly. Cullen appeared concerned by the exchange, but decided to keep his distance.

"Do you think we can steal something from the kitchens?" Zoe asked, not to anyone in particular.

"I don't think we could do it without being noticed," Cullen said, "the chefs would give us a good thrashing for taking plates away."

"Don't worry, I ate," Samson lied, not wanting to make his track record worse. Who cares they could hear his stomach? "What did you have?"

"Roast goose," Zoe said, which sounded like the best food in the world.

Cullen clapped Samson on the shoulder. "We'll head back. Keep in touch."

Samson knew Cullen well enough to understand that this was his way of being sentimental in a group situation. If they had been alone it would be different.

"Be well, Samson. I hope the Maker relieves your suffering," Phillipa said, sounding like she was departing a funeral, "Will I see you in the morning, Zoe?"

The beauty rolled her eyes. "_Thank you,_ Phillipa!"

"Andraste's tits…" Samson muttered, not sure what was happening to him. If she was trying to seduce him, the girl had only to ask.

After the crowd dissipated, the two didn't move from where they were sitting. The ocean hurled as it collided with the Dock's stony edge, the place he had to go. That was another way his body was dysfunctional. His heart didn't contract sitting next to her, it crashed. Now it was eerily, uncomfortably silent and Zoe gave a shuddering breath, sensing the tension.

"I'm sorry Phillipa is so embarrassing." She sighed. "I told her to leave it but she wouldn't. Deep down though… it's pleasing there's still a romantic in her."

Samson didn't want to know how Phillipa was coping without Maddox. Her eyes said more than enough, and the entire ordeal was just a nightmare he wanted to forget, but still – Zoe was right. Any semblance of her other self was a hope worth latching onto.

"Why didn't you leave with them then?" he wondered.

Zoe peered at the sky, which was scattered with stars, as though looking for a constellation. Samson couldn't help comparing her to Faith. Maker, she had it all, confidence, even a hard headedness, but Zoe didn't understand how dark his world had become. The Gallows shared death and destruction, but it was cushioned by wonders and joy. He wasn't sure he wanted to taint that part of her. It wasn't that she was naïve, but Samson knew she'd be upset if she knew the truth. Maybe she could already see it.

"I wanted to talk to you," Zoe said. As she looked over, her emerald eyes calmed him. Even in the light of a lantern near the dock, he can see her features as clearly as if it had been daylight, "But no matter how many times I agonize over what to say, I can't think of it. I just want to know you're safe, that you feel at home again somewhere. It isn't quite the same at the Circle without you. Like I said before, my parents would probably help you if I talked to them."

Samson struggled to look at her. Even in the darkness and shadows her features still radiated something incredibly _kind_.

"I don't think you can help me," he said finally, "I highly doubt I can help myself sometimes."

"_That's_ what's got me feeling like this," Zoe struggled, looking desperate for him to understand. "Maker, Samson, you look bloody awful! Please tell me you've got a plan. What are you going to do? What if something happened to you?"

There were the questions, again.

Samson peered at the ground. "I can't tell you, Zoe."

"Why not?"

It was a just question. If she had already figured out what a bad place he was in, why didn't he just stop her mind from reeling with scenarios? It was simple. Her feelings were at stake; her thoughts surrounding him could be ruptured with one amiss detail. Samson wanted her to keep being how she was, and preserve her playful spirit as much as possible. He couldn't do to her what he did to Phillipa. He didn't want to see her founder from anguish, even if he didn't mean that much to her. The risk was not worth taking this time.

"I care too much."

"… Yeah?" Zoe touched him on the shoulder and it made his insides do more than squirm, they wanted to tear out of his body. "If you're afraid I'm going to scold you like Cullen or Phillpa, I won't. I'm _not like them_, Samson."

"It's not that." Samson wretched her hand off him. "I care too much about _you_."

There was a horrible silence, only broken by the soft gust of evening air in their ears.

Zoe pushed some hair out of her face and frowned. "I don't get it, Samson."

Trying to suppress his guilt, the man presses his fingers to her forehead. It appeared to startle Zoe as well as intrigue her. "You're not supposed to."

Clearly this was not the answer the butterfly was hoping for. She grasped his fingers and let go, resting her hand on her thigh, not bothering to touch him beyond that.

"Can't you give me _something_?" Zoe pleaded.

Samson hesitated. The Templar in front of him was asking for something so simple. What was a small piece of information he could share with her, something that was hopeful? If she wasn't going to get him in trouble, there was not much else holding him back.

The only information he could grasp on with confidence wasn't even decided on. He supposed he had to give that rotten wench some credit.

"I've found someone who knows about lyrium withdrawal who might be able to support me," Samson explained cautiously, "That's all you need to know."

"That's…" Zoe appeared confused. "Support you with what?"

In their departing moments, Faith had been kind, but she had also been incredibly spiteful in the same conversation. Samson was still aggravated with her, but he couldn't deny there was a necessity for Faith to exist in his life. If nothing else, to calm Zoe, even if it was unclear as to the role the irrational whore would play. Still, the anger blocked him like a shield to an enemy's heart.

"I don't know yet."

"_Really?_" The girl sounded exasperated.

"Don't be like that." Samson raised his voice, his fingers trailing down to her flawless cheekbones.

To his horror, Zoe grabbed his shoulders and yanked him forward. "Why are you doing this?" She said under her breath, but her voice was starting to shake, "We are actually _talking_ right now. Do you really want to take that away?"

"If I tell you, it'll wreck you, every perfect strand of your hair." Samson said, "I'd rather you stayed as you are."

"I'm not some fragile princess like Phillipa is!" Zoe shouted.

Again, there was a pause, but Samson felt his face grow hot. "When I've figured it out I'll write it down just for you in a letter," he said, "but nothing else… nothing sooner."

"Fine." Zoe let go of him. Her voice trembled. "S-Samson… are we still friends?"

The ex-Templar peered beyond her to the Gallows for a second. The brunette's hair was still just as lovely, but her eyes were full of confusion, a feeling he knew all too well. Unlike Faith, the expression made her look older rather than more youthful. Friends implied connection of a different sort.

They were not connected by the Circle anymore. There would be no talk of brother and sister, even if Cullen had to make him feel welcome. Once he crossed back to the other side of Kirkwall, life would be different. Maybe he'd never come back here. He wasn't sure what he'd call his cherished companions. Samson thought with some regret that he wanted to call her an angel instead.

"You're my favourite girl in the Circle," he answered, finally piecing something together, "and stunningly beautiful, but… at least for now, I feel like you're something I can never have in my life."

It was a narrowly missed arrow to tell a fellow companion that they are to tread no further after him – a rude shock, but a necessity for her safety. This time he had to be alone. She had to retreat and warn the others of the danger.

"_What_?" it was barely a whisper and every letter of the word screamed for an explanation. Samson used all his remaining energy to acknowledge her feelings and grief in her face. Again, it was painful to look. Even to himself, if she was an angel, he was the wounded mortal that revered her from afar. The two were not allowed to coexist.

"You don't deserve someone like me," he said finally, and there was complete harmony between his thoughts and speech.

Before she could answer, Samson stood to his feet with difficulty and turned toward the dock, but Zoe shouted after him.

"You're _Samson_!" The tone was wrecked with tears. "Don't talk about yourself like you're some common demon!"

"Regardless of _what_ I am," Samson said, staring at where the boat was due, "I am not the person you knew me as."

It was truth. He didn't look, but he could imagine the tears rolling down her face in time to her sobs as he walked away, a hideous sound.

"Is it wrong to care?"

It was another difficult question, but one he knew the answer to. "Yes. You're wasting your energy…" Faith's words re-entered his mind, "but if you ever miss me, you can come visit whenever you like."

It pleased him that this seemed to calm Zoe down. She gave a sniff and said. "O-okay." And as the ex-Templar walked away he heard her final words, "Don't forget about the letter."

"I won't," Samson promised, and he never did.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thanks again for Steve Garbage for giving me feedback on this chapter. It is the longest one yet! I think I fixed up the parts you were worried about... basically just made the chapter longer. Please rate and review, all readers!

I always imagined the lyrium song being in latin. The lyrics I used for it are from, "Lilium" by Kumiko Noma, and "Salve Regina", a Christian chant. There is a fantastic female opera/orchestra cover of Salve Regina on Youtube by a composer called Giovanni Battista.


	10. Formator Eleison - Maker Have Mercy

Looking back, Maddox had been oddly absent minded when he'd given Samson the last letter.

Samson had retrieved the envelope by evening in a corridor adjacent the Gallow's dining hall. As per usual when passing letters, it was dark, lit only by a small yellow light Maddox made dance around the ceiling like a firefly.

The exact date, Samson couldn't remember, but it was over a week before Cullen asked him to talk to Meredith.

There had been so many exchanges there was no indication that this would be their final time sneaking and meeting. The man had a better memory for conversation and trickery, which was exactly what Maddox was great at, and the two had made many inappropriate jokes at the expense of others, but only at times when no letters were involved, like crossing each other in the courtyard or the library. Often times, obscene gestures from a distance were enough.

He should have known something wasn't quite right when Maddox made a comment about Zoe as Samson folded the paper and slipped it underneath his armor within the notch of his collarbone.

For a moment Samson met the joker's eyes, glittering by the vague flickers of light, and possibly tears. However, they were also obscured by his grin.

"Did I see the Butterfly sighing in your direction with drool hanging off her chin earlier?" he teased.

Samson put out the magical light with a snatch of his fist, as though grabbing an arrow that had been zooming through the air. The spell hissed like smoke and the hall fizzled black.

Maddox liked to make Zoe out to be improper to annoy him, and forever untouchable. That part wasn't entirely incorrect, which was even more trying.

"You mean you didn't watch when I licked it off?" Samson jested, "Or you were too busy hiding in your Swan's shadow?"

His friend had laughed at that, probably too loud, but Samson merely grinned.

Maddox summoned another magical light source in his now free palm, creating an aura to illuminate their faces.

The mage was the one who started referring to their fancied girls anonymously, after Samson described to him how doleful Zoe and his interactions were. By how stupid the story was, Maddox had joked that Samson was chasing a butterfly out in the courtyard – something humorous but pointless.

Samson had not expected he would tell anyone about Zoe, but it was a display of how charisma held a power of its own. The most striking detail about Maddox was his engaging nature. He had an almost innate ability to make others trust him, by his sheer playfulness and sensitivity. After a couple of brief interactions, it seemed impossible for Samson not tell him about her.

It became obvious quickly why someone as studious and doting as Phillipa fell for him. Samson admitted he had grown rather fond of Maddox as well.

Only now did Samson realize his friend was probably making a joke out of nerves or in desperation to tell him something. That would have been a perfect opportunity to tell Samson he had taken Philipa's virginity away, or they had planned it, that Phillipa was going to break her chastity vow, but he had been clever and kept it to himself. At the time, he guessed Maddox had been bored.

"Hey, Samson," the mage muttered, lowering his voice, "next time I see you, if you haven't held Butterfly's gaze for more than half a second, I'm going to enchant your hair so it starts malting."

"When you cast that spell I'll make sure Chandler hears about it." Samson shot back, immediately.

"I'll leave a note underneath Guylian's skeleton about your flirting cock-ups."

"Shhh…" Samson brought a finger to his lips, backed away and gave a wave to his friend, not knowing that this would be the last conversation they'd have with Maddox sharing his full mind.

Little did the ex-Templar know at the time, but it was the last he'd ever speak to Maddox with his sanity in tact too.

* * *

Before being dismissed from the Gallows, Samson had taken for granted the prize of a clear head. He had seen the destruction mental webbing took upon those who botched their Harrowing, knew exactly the warning signs of possession and even which mages who were susceptible to it, but he had been confident he was strong enough to withstand such dangers. Despite offering gratitude to the Maker for avoiding such a fate, he had never truly understood how it felt to be without a mind.

By Maddox's doing and leaving the Gallows, Samson started to understand how important it was, but back then, his thankfulness wouldn't have convinced Andraste.

The grief was now painful when his mind was stolen away crossing the sea from the Gallows.

The cold confused him first, as a splash of salt water reached his eyes. The black waves were illuminated by a single lantern.

It was so terribly dim Samson was inclined to believe he was in a Gallows cell for a moment. Panicked questions of 'Where is this?', 'Is someone taking me away somewhere?', 'What time is it?' then 'What happened to me?' flashed past his brain, so quick they overlapped in a blur.

Then he remembered where he was and why he was there, but as he did it meant that he had, for an indefinite amount of time, forgotten, and as far as he was concerned – ceased to exist. This was not what Samson wanted, no matter where he was.

The man had said farewell to his friends, Zoe had cried, but he could only bring the sound to mind, and his stomach roared for food.

The Gallows. The water. Whether it was the withdrawal, the lack of sustenance or both, he had drifted out of consciousness. If he had been standing within Kirkwall, the same blunder could cost him more than a half a minute of panic, but his safety or life.

Rubbing his forehead with grimy hands, Samson wondered the same as everybody else. What was he going to do?

_Qui genus humanum cernens mersisse profundo, Ut hominem eriperes es quoque factus homo. (You Who, seeing mankind to have plunged to the deep,_

_that you might save man, were also made man.)_

Faith…. She had been a bitch, but she… she… what had she done again?

Nearly slipping over, the ex-Templar placed his hands in front of him, breathing heavily. His skull was either spinning or getting pounded with a hammer, he couldn't tell which. It was nearly pitch black, but it felt as though someone was blaring the sun in his eyes.

Barely aware of what he was doing, he leaned his head over where he thought the edge of the boat was and retched painfully, but he had passed the point where rationality was in his grasp. Not even spit reached his lips.

Meredith had destroyed Maddox. The Knight Commander, the one he was supposed to obey on bent knees, had emotionally wrecked Philipa... very deliberately. Her choice to reject him had upset Zoe. That bitch.

But the leader of the Templar Order wasn't the only maddening one. There was also a woman with carefully done make up and distracting, noxious curves.

Samson was about to utter aloud that Faith was almost as intolerable, but what remained of his conscience interrupted him. It wasn't his mind, but the memory of Zoe that was a reminder. He had told his angel that the wench might be able to help. Why? Had he been insane when he said that?

Darktown. The man growled as he brushed water droplets off his forearms. Sitting on an angle, the approaching Kirkwall lights had the quality of an illusion. There wasn't much evidence he was in a body, especially by how the song whispered to his soul like a lullaby, wanting him to disappear.

_Funeris exsequias pateris vitae auctor et orbis, Intras mortis iter dando salutis opem (That Thou, the author of life and the world, might open the way of death and the grave by giving hope of salvation.)_

_You shouldn't be working when the withdrawal is this bad, you know,_

Faith said those words with worried eyes, unable to hide her defenselessness. Samson now recognized the expression in her face, for he had seen it in Zoe's this night. Regardless of why, the woman was worried he was going to die.

It had come suddenly, she said, without warning, just like this. Zoe was concerned for him as well, had even cried for him. He didn't want that beauty to be guilt stricken the same way Philipa had for losing her lover. It would be foolish to pretend he was fine now, when his body had temporarily, albeit completely, abandoned the commands of his brain.

Faith….to his unfortunate realization, had a point. Right now, he was at risk. The man supposed, despite guesses, he didn't know what it felt like to die. Faith did, even if she had narrowly evaded it. The woman had an eye for danger in withdrawal, and she had seen it in him.

_I am not leaving you. You already left yourself to perish._

It had frightened her. Now he felt just as shaken.

_I have to take it,_ he thought, not wanting to name the liquid he carried, denying to grant it power to corrupt him, but deep down he understood removal of it already had. The blue poison had spiteful eyes. It was a superior who treated its combatants nicely when they behaved, but gave a lashing if one didn't.

He had been beaten. His face was bloody, his body ruptured, and time had come to reluctantly return home to submit to its every egotistical plea and be loyal to its commands. Samson had tried his best to escape the abuse of his possessor, but it had failed, and for it he would grieve over his punishment for years to come. There was little choice but to obey the song to circumvent inescapable toil. There was no safety in trying to escape, and no guarantee that Samson's life would be spared.

Slipping and fumbling awkwardly, he gripped the vial in his pocket and struggled to lift it, bewildered when the marvellous blue twinkle brought an involuntary smile to his lips.

He wasn't doing this for Faith. True, he didn't want her to know she was right, but he didn't want to die. Making Zoe tear up would be in vein if he didn't pull through on his word, and he didn't want to die on a fucking boat _leaving_ the Gallows. Meredith would find that amusing until the day a sword pierced her bleeding heart.

Mustering the last of his resolve, the brunet imagined he was in Darktown again. As the cork slipped off he felt some lyrium dribble over his fingers.

_Shit!_

Dignity aside, Samson caught the spill, sucked it off and gently sipped a small amount he didn't measure. He put the vile away like it was evidence of blood magic.

He was surprised, but in the moments the liquid dripped down his tongue and into his throat, there was no resistance in his mind at all.

There was too much pain in his head to conceptualize in any great detail what occurred. The warmth spread vaguely from his throat to his chest, like drinking the first gulp of a hot drink after bracing snow, and faded fast.

For a brief moment, Samson wondered if his body was too broken for the lyrium to work, but it took until the boat hit the Docks until his vision and headache readjusted.

* * *

A punch of guilt twisted his guts into a painful knot. He was annoyed he had given into what Faith had suggested, but it was only a little bit, barely a few drops. Losing his job couldn't…._hadn't_ been for nothing. Without it, he wouldn't have met that whore in the first place and gotten the lyrium.

The ache in his body also lessened, as though he had gone back to day two of withdrawal, but one sore remained. He needed blasted food.

The ex-Templar sat down on some steps off the main walkway of Lowtown and fiddled with his bag. Here, he could think steadily. None who strolled past bothered him. They might have assumed he was a homeless mutt.

That wouldn't be far from the truth now.

Where could he go? The Chantry was overrun with refugees and even if it wasn't, Samson didn't want the slightest chance he would run into his mother. His father, knowing him, wouldn't say a word, if he was even living in the same house. If it had been ten years prior he would cling to them, but time had toughened that young boy's heart. His friends were his real family, and letting them know what had become of him was bad enough.

Yesterday, Samson had felt close to figuring out what his solution would be. Faith had something to do with it, but Darktown was as hard to navigate at night as his memories. Her body remained an enigma through blurred pictures, like watching from a distance. Fragments remained, comparable to a night where he'd drunk too much.

There were Faith's breasts as he unlaced her corset, the faded stretch marks around her hips as though she'd once lost and gained weight within a short space of time, her bronzed skin and his fingers that stopped feeling like fingers the longer he pressed into her.

There had been lyrium on her breath. Blight take it, sweat had mingled with it, but the poison was still overcoming. The aroma was damnable, but so gratifying.

Too lured by fixation, he submerged into the illustrations. There was that strong fragrance, a sharp tang like rich, aged alcohol as many sounds escaped her mouth. The more she had to inhale, the louder her demands, the greater the lyrium scent was. Through the blizzard of her orders, pleads and outrage, she had said his name many times, enough to cover every tone imaginable in just that one word. In just surveying the memory, a quaint shiver roamed under his skin like a charge's amateurish electricity spell.

The fact he could feel _something_, even if it was very little, was calming. Samson didn't know which rendition of his name he preferred, but in a curious sporadic instance where she forgot to order him around the lyrium was the easiest to evoke. There, the woman exhaled the most and held him the tightest.

What had they been talking about when he left? Samson wasn't sure. He had been trying to figure out why she was so volatile, the same as when he'd been listening to her every desire.

It was impossible she could have been so dysfunctional in the Gallows or Guylian would have tossed her the moment he could.

It was Faith's goodbye, when Samson was drained of his will, where her mouth had stretched into a smile.

_You can come over whenever you like… so you better not decay into a mangled corpse while you're away._

Did that unpredictable whore want him to visit her after she'd been so angry?

Samson peered at the dull houses in the distance, perhaps hoping the answer was carved on one of the walls. The least he could do was investigate.

_If she's in a foul state, I'll leave_, he decided.

The ex-Templar slowly got to his feet and forgot about them as he wandered toward Hightown's Red Lantern District. There was no way he would pronounce himself to Zoe's tavern when he didn't deserve her, neglected to wipe the tears from her face and told her he had a plan.

Where did all the other homeless sods sleep? Wherever they were, they picked places not visible on the main walkways.

Reluctantly, he pushed past the cream colored stone to the door of Kirkwall's most popular brothel for the third night in a moon cycle, wondering if he'd broken some sort of record for a customer in the Free Marches.

* * *

The detail Samson noticed first was not the regular customers, but his apprehension, a relief compared to the pain that usually pulled at his body. He didn't have to drag his feet as much as he approached the manager.

As the brunet was a familiar face with a troubled history, Madame Lusine wasn't happy to see him. As Samson weaved past tables and chairs, her hawk-like eyes kept darting to the floor, like afraid she would have to rush for a mop. Maybe she was even considering handing him one.

The faint guitar played by a bard in the corner scrambled the lyrics in his head and made the room sound horrendous.

"You're finding this dwelling convenient by now, I presume?" she theorized, her voice drawling more than usual, "What will it be?"

Samson had to concentrate to take in what was said.

"When does Faith leave?" he inquired, his voice sounding close to normal.

"I supposed you were after the misses. She went home four hours ago." The woman said briskly, with a look that told him to rattle off.

Samson didn't know how to respond. He was relieved there was no risk of being insulted, although it did carve a wound in his plan, "Did her reputation dwindle?"

"No." Madame Lusine said, pursing her lips disapprovingly, "She was sent home. The pretty was feeling off color."

The ex-Templar's initial thought was, _Maybe that's her fault_, but he had to remind himself that she was a slave to lyrium, perhaps her original withdrawal symptoms had taken a toll.

If Samson was being honest, he suspected Faith would go on working for as long as possible, just like him. Being 'sent home' against her will was the only fact that made him believe it wasn't some lie to convince him to leave.

Madame Lusine seemed to read his face.

"No need to look so pitiless," she brushed something off her blouse, "She had a stroke. It is not unusual for her, nothing that ought to _demoralize_ you."

On the contrary, Samson thought this _was_ worth worrying about, but not from sympathy. His backup plan was to fall asleep on the ground in the streets with others who were homeless. Now the time came to actually consider doing this, it was not something he was going to do without a fight. Faith's house was The Golden City compared to sleeping in dirt, even if the person who lived in it was a big drain on his energy. He could deal with it, just like putting up with guarding the doors in the Gallows.

"Did she go anywhere else?" Samson pressed.

"I'm sorry, ser," the manager said stiffly, "I am unaware of where else she could go in her condition. But while you're here, the other girls are willing to receive some silver."

Samson gathered his thoughts as Madame Lusine pocketed coins off others who were waiting, presumably regulars, who were told, "In the lounge as usual, ser," and pushed past him.

"I don't want them," he forced out. It went against the mistrust stirring in his blood, it contended against his rational mind, but if the Maker would grant him the pleasure of seeing Faith in a decent frame of mind, he didn't want to push her away, "I need to speak to her."

"If you won't stop pestering," Madame Lusine threatened, "please leave."

"Fine," Samson stepped away from the busty woman, "I'll buy a drink instead."

Before anything worse could happen, the former Templar head toward the one of the tables and sat down.

Shit. Faith was gone and he had no memory of how to get to her house. This plan had already failed.

He rattled some coins in his pocket and counted them. He didn't have much. What did he want more right now, sustenance or to figure out where Faith's house was? The only ones who would know any information on Faith's whereabouts were the workers themselves.

Sighing at his languidness, Samson returned to his feet and, after waiting until the next piece of music started, retreated back to the manager like the fool he was.

The dying hope that he would have somewhere to reside for the night was his only motivation for neglecting a meal. Faith would surely, hopefully… she _better_ have food.

Samson gives Madame Lusine the last coin he had, enough for the standard service. "Who's the most patient lady here?"

She didn't even look over her shoulder, obviously sick of his shit, "Olina. She's the one with the ponytail, over there, messere."

The man, not knowing what he was getting himself into, walked through the crowd, somewhat able to appreciate the beige stone walls, rouge curtains and rugs.

With a twisted regret, Samson wished he could fuck Zoe to make her feel better, but no… the word was too vicious. Even if he expressed himself in a more sensitive way she would probably cry, but despite this Samson still wanted her to know he cared. Was making love a better term?

Samson tried not to think about it, now convinced there was something rattled in his brain. He wasn't sure he knew what love was, if he was even worthy of calling it that.

The ex-Templar didn't wave as the one called Olina caught his eye, her heart shaped face far more striking than the hair style. Without a word, he was guided by a whore he had seen before but not ever been with. Her frame was so minuscule she could have been a young girl, but the fullness of her hips said otherwise.

"You've been the topic of some chatter 'round here," she said, with a grittiness that further concealed her age, "I'll be careful."

Samson brushed off the insinuation he was nutters, "No need."

As they passed door to door, the man considered the best way to get information. He needed to gain this woman's trust. The first step to gaining trust was honesty; at least he knew that better than some _others_.

He watched the girl's pony tail bounce as they found a room at the back.

Olina locked the door and turned on him, but his eyes barely acknowledge her face.

"What can I do for you, troublemaker?"

Samson hesitated, the woman's white and gold gown twinkling at him pleasantly. All he wanted was to be in a bed, Faith's preferably, get some food and forget about this ordeal. The night had been emotional enough. "I wanted Faith instead."

"Faith?" Olina seemed surprised, "I'm surprised Lusine didn't kick you out right then."

"What do you mean?"

"Faith's gotten the most on the banned list out of everyone. Mind you, she has worked longer." The blonde said, "I think she mixes with the messy crowd, if you understand what I'm saying?"

"Maybe," Samson said slowly, pondering on just how messy her exploits went, and a slither of jealousy fed into his frustration. It wasn't a big surprise there was a list of wrongdoers who were not allowed to enter, but these _other ones_... how many more were there? "Does she take any of them home with her?"

"Oh, no! Don't be silly!" the prostitute laughed, "I think she'd rather make an enemy than let anyone do that. You should have seen the face she gave me when I asked if she secretly fancied any of her clients."

"I wouldn't know."

Samson kept his answers short, baffled by the rigidity in his thinking, but he was not well or motivated enough to uncover why.

"I'm sorry, we're getting so carried away," Olina waved a hand, "Are you saying you want me to act like Faith? I don't know her very well. I could do a bad imitation."

"Let's not," Samson hesitated. He didn't only want Faith to let him into her house, he craved her sympathy, but for now, the goal was to win Olina over, "Is there anything _you_ would like?"

Olina stared at him as though he'd suggested setting the Rose on fire and twirled at her ponytail fretfully, "What do you mean?"

"I'm feeling generous," Samson said, "but if you care so much, just do what you want, but remember I'm tired."

There was a long silence where the blonde remained confused, but then she curtsied.

"Very well, Mister Samson," Olina said, "If that's the case, can you pretend you are my husband for a while?"

He wondered how husbands and wives treated each other in bed, "How do I do that?"

The woman paced toward him and smiled coyly, "Just relax… and be nice."

_I am already relaxed. This will be easy._

Samson nodded and tried to smile.

Olina lead him to the edge of the bed where he sat down and she climbed behind him and rubbed his shoulders.

"How was work, my joy?"

Samson figured he couldn't say the wrong answer if he was vague enough, "Alright."

She kissed his neck and ran her fingers through his hair. It only made him feel like going to sleep again. Even the lyrium's song began to sound like a lullaby. When Samson stopped answering Olina's small talk, she sat on his lap and touched his face gently.

"I'm so sorry I was out late again," she said earnestly, "It's not my fault. Madame Lusine is really pushy when in a bad mood, and she's like that most of the time."

His eyelids shut and his consciousness started to drift.

"S'fine." Samson mumbled.

"Please try stay awake. I'm trying to make it up to you for not being around." Olina said, kissing him in a quite a desperate and longing manner, but the former Templar had given up speaking.

"You're not having a good day, Samson?" Olina said, her tone completely changing as she broke out of her fantasy.

All the man could do was shake his head.

"Hmm…" after a pause, the blonde grabbed one of his free hands and slid it down into her white lingerie. He felt the vague wetness and could even smell it, but nothing drove his emotions. Nothing. He had taken lyrium! This shouldn't be happening!

"By the Maker," Olina was in awe, although Samson couldn't help but interpret it as a personal insult, "This isn't working as well as I hoped. My husband would take me by now."

"Sorry," Samson tried to explain, and he opened his eyes, "I was like this yesterday too."

"What helped?" the woman inquired.

"Nothing really," It was depressing to admit, though he had not entered this room to please himself, "What would your spouse do if he got like this?"

Olina let out a giggle, "It doesn't happen often, but…." She tried to hide her shyness by pretending to readjust her ponytail, "I won't say no if you want to spoil me."

Initially, it was silent. The woman made her lower half bare, spread her legs apart with the elegance of a dancer and motioned him to get closer to her.

"I hope your mouth knows better how to please a lady than your voice," she serenaded.

It felt like the Fade as he lowered his knees to the rug, neither truly experiencing nor believing what was happening in front of him, though there was little doubt of what her request implied. Trying to push away the pestering thought he didn't feel up to it, Samson grabbed hold of her thighs and is as silently compliant as he had been the night before.

Either too deprived or desperate, the petite woman didn't direct him beyond simple 'yes' and 'no' in quick succession, like she was going through a list of decoration ideas under time pressure. The prostitute's moans pitched at the opposite moment to what he was used to, from a voice he didn't know. It rang unpleasantly to Samson's ears, an unfamiliar person giving him far more trust than he was ready for, but he continued anyway.

Olina clutched onto his hair as she gasped, gently tracing the contour of one of his ears affectionately with her other hand. He didn't know why he felt immoral when her wedding ring pressed into his skull. It made him feel like she was digging down into the deepest parts of his vulnerabilities, an invasive and unwelcome procedure. Marriage was a foreign, unacquainted vow which made him feel something between cold and intimidated.

Her voice is remarkably high pitched when brought to her climax, to the point where it is distracting. The petite woman holds his head between her thighs and a splash of fluid is propelled down his face.

It didn't bother Samson. In fact, it woke him up. He wiped it off, although he did get aroused to a very small extent, it wasn't enough to last.

Olina sighed, her eyelids blissfully heavy and balanced herself in a limp state using Samson's shoulders.

"I will personally ensure you never get on Madame Lusine's list." She said with heaving breaths, her feet and fingers still shuddering from the after effects.

"I'd appreciate it."

Samson felt like he'd lost consciousness all over again, like what had just happened _didn't_. He slowly stood to his feet, and as though a skeletal spirit suddenly awakened Olina's eyes widened. She brought her legs together and snatched at his crotch, but the ex-Templar caught her wrist just in time.

"Don't touch me." he said firmly. There were many reasons why he refused, but no time or wish to elaborate. Most of all, the horror was unceasing. He didn't want the reminder that his body was broken.

"Why not?" she asked, looking hurt. "Don't you feel like I've wasted your time?"

Samson felt sympathetic, "You woke me up, but I do have a favor to ask."

The blonde's eyes softened in earnest compliance, "I'll do what I can."

"Do you know where Faith lives?" he asked as Olina appeared distrusting and concerned, "She said I could visit her outside of work, but I can't remember where it is, besides Darktown."

Olina looked surprised, "Faith isn't supposed to mingle with her clients."

"Maker's piss," Samson swore, not having thought of this.

"I won't tell." she interrupted, as though mentioning her boss's name was sin, "I would have if you were more hateful. Look, I can check Madame Lusine's files and get her address, but I'll only do it on one condition."

"What is that?" Samson questions.

"Don't see Faith at work anymore," the blonde said harshly, "It's not allowed. Pick one or the other."

"Got it." Samson said with a shrewd smile. "Thank you, Olina."

* * *

It was surprisingly easy for Olina to get Faith's address from the employee files, by saying she wanted to change some details on her own records. Madame Lusine eyed Samson curiously as he waited at the bar, feeling only slightly more hopeful that he would have somewhere to sleep.

The girl still had to stay on for work so the man left for Darktown, more confident on how to navigate the streets.

He had to stay near the buildings as to not fall over and felt very on edge knowing that if anybody tried to kill him he wouldn't have the strength to defend himself. Perhaps it was because his unruly appearance blended in with refugees that no one seemed to bother him. He was so hungry he wouldn't be surprised if he blanked out again.

When Samson found the right address he could have sworn it didn't look so broken the first time he'd arrived. Darktown wasn't known for having elegant houses, but the grayed wooden planks looked like they would catch fire in seconds and had been damaged but not repaired.

Double checking he was in the right place, Samson stepped to the door and gave a very rapt knock.

There was a pause. Only silence answered him.

Maybe she was asleep.

Samson knocked again, harder.

"Faith…" he croaked, trying to speak louder, "its Samson."

Again, nothing happened. There wasn't even a sound of footsteps. What were the chances she had gone out somewhere?

Samson sat down and rested his head against the door. It was cold and lonely outside, not to mention smoggy. He coughed and shut his eyes. At least the Blooming Rose gave the illusion of company. Now he had no coin, not anything, not even a bed to sleep in.

He had never slept without a bed in his life.

"HEY!" Samson nearly punched a hole in the door from the force he whacked it with, but again, nothing happened. What had gotten into the woman? Was Faith doing this on purpose?

After thirty seconds went by with no answer it was clear it wouldn't get better.

"Answer the Blighted door!" Samson shouted, not caring if he disturbed others. He placed his head in his hands, too tired to struggle anymore.

He can't remember if he groaned, but he jumped at the sound of voices and rolled the lyrium between his fingers in his pocket. He wasn't looking forward to anymore hallucinations in a part of town that wasn't safe. Not only that, if he fell asleep someone would steal the vial.

Struggling to move, he pulled the glass out of his pocket with great difficulty, but didn't stare at it, although this time its smell was stronger, tasteful, like a fine whiskey.

Without meaning to, he had basically turned into nothing. Maybe everyone felt pity. Nathara was right. He had no drive. In fact, he wasn't sure what was motivating him to do anything anymore. Nothing made him feel 'happy'. It was more accurate to ask what made the agony halt, like a wound clotting that ached rather than burned.

That was easy. The lyrium would make it less, but he had taken some.

There was something else. He needed _her_ to pass the time. He needed both. Faith to distract him, lyrium to give an imitation of pleasure… the most rotten safe haven in existence.

Why _did_ she believe in him? He was an idiot, and had proved it multiple times tonight. Samson should have taken the lyrium earlier like Faith had suggested. Then he would still have a job and could visit her. He could have lived in his safe haven and be protected from the lyrium's spiteful gaze.

The woman who had loved a mage in the Circle was a step ahead of him and she probably knew what he could do next.

The two hadn't even shared a full day together, but she had invited him into her life. That was a kindness of sorts. From what Olina suggested, perhaps it was the highest display of generosity. Faith wasn't only socially inhibited with him, but basically everybody, even people she encountered every day.

If she would be patient, if Samson could get her to listen, he didn't want her to die either. His carefully orchestrated line may not have been a true falsehood. He wanted to reject her mortality. She didn't have strokes. She was an immortal fiery spirit that could extinguish a forest. She burned his sorrow to a crisp, leaving a blistered outside, but he was no longer able to perceive it. Faith destroyed his mind and ripped his conscience from its socket.

_If the withdrawal process turns me into a monster, I'd rather lose my mind so I can no longer be aware of my mistakes._

Had he lost his mind already? His memory was shot, his consciousness was distorted, and his sense of morality had been redefined. This loss of self-perception was what he had wanted. Tranquility, the elimination of guilt… Faith was a muse, in a sense, a compass to direct him home.

Maybe he had found what he needed. Under her roof he could put his life back together again, even if the order and shape of putting the pieces back would be awful. It was _something_. Better than this.

Samson gulped. He wanted to feel _normal_ again. Taking a deep breath the formula came back. Lyrium and Faith was his shelter. He had the first part.

Wherever Faith was or whatever she was doing, Samson was not going to be sleeping under her roof tonight.

_I have to finish the vial so some snitch doesn't pinch it,_ he thought.

What would Zoe say? She just wanted him to be safe… a plan.

She would think it was okay.

Cullen?

Phillipa?

Did it really matter what they thought anymore? What could they do? Nothing more than what they had already expressed and felt.

It felt like he was hallucinating again when his fingers became wet with tears. This is where his indecision had left him, absolutely nowhere. He only wished he hadn't been kicked out of the Circle in the first place.

The man sobbed for his old home and friends, tears that he felt had been bottled up since he had left but never expressed. Even now the emotion felt false and hollow, like someone was dribbling water over his face rather than it coming out of him.

There was no escaping it. As Samson imagined he was in the Circle, the tears did not falter. Somehow this image was clearer than anything he had tried to recall. He took the philtre equipment out of the draw as simply as if he was washing himself, took off the cork and poured the contents of the flask down his throat. The dosage was more than what the Circle provided in the morning, but it didn't break his fantasy.

The sensation was like it had been in the Gallows; it came in a wave of warmth, although he realized he had forgotten what it had felt like. As such, it made him feel off balance and queasy.

The effects took a minute or so to spread around his system, but soon what remained of his symptoms disappeared, the song, the feverish feeling and the aches. He felt – he thought this was - normal, but it was very unusual. It almost made him panic. It was so good and yet he had suffered for absolutely nothing.

By the Blight, he wished he had taken this shit earlier.

Samson curled up on the front of the house and used his bag for a pillow. Even if it was cold and uncomfortable he still fell asleep faster than he had since he left the Circle.

* * *

_Authors notes:_ This chapter is crazy. It is just Samson mulling over everything. I can't believe how long it is considering how very little actually _happens_.

Steve, I shortened the Rose scene. I think it still keeps to the main point of what it was there for, and I fixed up the tenses.

The latin lyrics are from a Christian chant called, "Salve Festa Dies."

Hope you lovely readers enjoyed, in the sort of "this makes me feel emotional" sort of way.


	11. Interlude - Wash Away All They've Taken

_Authors Notes:_ This was originally written as a one shot for my beta, SteveGarbage. He thought that it might work better as a part of this, so enjoy!

I'm guessing if Faith had a psychologist look at her, she might be classified as having Borderline Personality Disorder, so if anyone doesn't know what that is, look it up.

* * *

Faith sauntered to her chair, her legs sore, her lower regions numb and wrists in need of stretching.

It was already occupied by a female elf and a young man. When her eyes met theirs, panic fawned over their features. The workers all knew her name, but she didn't care for theirs.

"Maker, get out of the way!" hurriedly shushed… Cora?

"Sorry!" mentioned… that other one. Gladly, they were clever and knew it was her chair, for they stood abruptly to their feet. Timid, he added: "We only…We'll stand over at the wall."

The workers paced from ear shot and peace returned to the world again. Faith managed a smile only from habitual politeness.

"Appreciated," she said calmly.

Her knees gave way as she lowered herself.

It was important she sat in exactly the same place, with a clear view of the parade. She watched young, old, regular and not-so-regular men and women gravitate around the room to investigate the workers. The new ones rarely knew who they wanted.

The lounge of the Blooming Rose reminded her more of Satinalia, or at least, what her Grandfather used to say the celebration was like in Antiva. It lasted for a week, like her work days. She rarely took days off. Free time stopped having meaning long ago. All people wore masks. The customers did the same. Agendas hid in the lounge. It was the only place they could survive and flicker, as the wax always melted away in the rooms.

The acoustic guitar remained within a daily seven hour widow, a traditional dance, an opportunity for togetherness and fun. It didn't annoy her like it used to. She sometimes mistook the Rose to be silent from the ensemble coiling inside the sutures of her skull.

She abandoned stretching her forearms as a man with a slightly receding hairline approached her. Late thirties.

"Good evening, youthful serrah." His voice was oddly formal. "How are you this fine evening?"

_This man should be married to a florist,_ Faith thought.

However, it was nice when her age was complimented upon. She forced a grin. "I am well, thank you." And added a sales pitch. "Are you interested in premium service? Last year was my decade-versary. There's still a lot of time to celebrate."

"I only wanted to say hello," the man said.

_I don't think so,_ Faith disagreed.

To give the benefit of the doubt, his demeanour was innocent enough.

"I am hugely inquisitive," he continued, "How did you perfect your Marcher accent so well?"

Faith's thought was immediate._ I hate you so much._

Proper Satinalia named a person as fool for the week's festivities. This marked her fifth potential candidate for today.

_I was inspired by the song of slaughtering the ignorant w_as what she wished she was allowed to say. She despised whoever made assumptions based on her skin color.

"I grew up here."

Faith had to really force her smile now.

"Did you?" it was not clear if the man was curious or non-believing. "You do not appear like you are a native."

"Yes. I am." Faith hoped that her politeness was convincing. "My Grandfather was from Antiva though."

_You ignorant, presumptuous bastard. I bet you think I got this job because I'm stupid too, don't you? Just a poor, useless foreigner, like you think all the refugees outside are._

"My sincerest apologies, young lady." The stranger did a rather flamboyant finger flick. "I specialize in potions, not people, though I would like to advance on my expertise with the latter."

"An apology is not necessary." Faith tried to charm the customer. "But thank you. You're a very thoughtful person."

_Ignorant bastard._

"It was my mistake. I apologize most humbly, again. Do you know any Antivan?"

Faith pondered on this. "That depends entirely on what you would like me to say, dear ser."

_Pay me or leave._

"I have not given the idea a lot of time to grow in my intricate brain," the stranger said, "What is a phrase you are fond of?"

Her Grandfather liked the word _deshonrar, which meant 'to shame'. _He denounced Kirkwall for defiling important aspects of Antivan culture, like Satina, the Goddess of the second moon.

That didn't stop them from enjoying Satinalia. When she was little they made their own masks and celebrated the holiday with Kirkwall's tight knit Antivan community. Most were elderly and equally longing for home, so as per customs they brought large plates of food and exchanged gifts. They were like extended family. Faith befriended those who were up to five times her own age. She learned parts of Antivan as a second language, though she and her Grandfather practiced English together. Understanding Marcher customs was important, he said. Even though her _abuelito's _opinion about Kirkwall didn't change, she liked that she could predict what would make her Grandfather get angry. Besides his pension once she moved out of home, there was nothing else he was bitter about. She could prepare herself for a tirade and knew it would be short lived once it started.

The world was not so predictable and welcoming anymore.

Choosing a saying she remembered well, the prostitute ran her fingers through her long, dark hair, attempting to seem exotic, "Hay días tontos y tontos todos los días."_ (**There are stupid days, and people who are stupid every day_**)

"Incredible pronunciation for a Marcher!" the stranger said, quite eager to make up for his earlier stupidity, "What does it mean?"

Faith felt like her smile was more genuine now. "It means 'I hope you have a nice evening.'"

"Pardon me, messerre." Lusine's voice broke through their conversation. She strolled to the chair, "I have a customer interested in securing Faith's services. He has already paid. Am I interposing?"

"What a good question," Faith said smoothly, peering at the stranger. _I bet he's a regular. Leave me to get paid._

"I will return another time then." The man gave a solemn bow. "Pleasure to meet you… Faith?"

Mentally preparing herself to keep stroking her customer's egos, Faith rose to her feet. "You're too kind. The pleasure is all mine."

…_you unintentionally ignorant bastard._

Lusine however, didn't quite leave once the man did. "Mistress, I would like to verify you approve. He is not new to the Rose, though not a client of yours. He is of the Guard, though so drunk I am expecting him to fall over. I have put aside the extra two gold he gave me for you."

Faith was surprised. She'd never been paid extra like this. Sure, she'd get inappropriate gifts from time to time or tips, but that was only once she'd done her work. Maybe this man had heard about her… but even then, why would he pay her more than required? Maybe he was untrustworthy.

"Aggressive?" Faith inquired.

Lusine pursed her lips. "He did not appear harmful, only immature, mistress. He lingers in his mid-twenties, I presume."

The woman paused. A young one. Immature she could manage easily. The Guard were more tolerable than the norm. This could be interesting.

"I'll take him."

She paced out of the chaos of the lounge and to the main reception. The music partially drowned a song reverberating from the core of her mind. It was clear immediately who the customer was. The layered silver shoulder pads and the dull orange from the chest piece was a dead giveaway.

Other Guards were boisterously enjoying extra drinks out at the bar, but _he_ was the one at the front of the line, quite a sight to witness. Faith occasionally allowed tipsy customers in, though this one was different. The man was not proud, nor assuming. He was hunched over. He had recently shaven, though some stubble appeared irregularly along his rough jawline. His brown hair had streaks of dampness that helped shape it into something presentable. His eyes were the most intriguing. They were grey with a sturdy intensity, like his armour, or the second moon. The gaze of a protector. A fighter.

He was standing in such a way it wasn't clear he knew which way the lounge was, or even if he wanted to be there at all. As unspoiled as the wild youngling appeared, his skin was pasty, mildly tinged yellow at his throat. His lips had specks of bluish grey and the corners were drawn down as though he had forgotten how to smile. One of his legs was shaking.

_What drink_… she wondered, _did he binge until oblivion?_

It looked unnervingly familiar, almost like lyrium withdrawal, but that couldn't be right.

Then again, this must be a new Guard member. She had not seen him before.

No. It couldn't be right. Though there could be a means to verify her suspicion.

Faith was too in thought to verbalize. She didn't open her mouth until she was close enough to see the customers pupils.

"Good evening, Guardsman," she said calmly, but she thought her tone might sound wary to Lusine.

Her customer stopped being a near gargoyle. He observed her features slowly, a perfect example of inspecting eyes… only they darted erratically.

There was no judgement in them.

Concentrate, Faith. The pupils. That was what was important. As she watched the dots move, analyzing her body, she tried to keep a polite smile.

The left was slightly larger than the right. The black in them was uneven, and even as he was looking at her, they were ever-so-incrementally morphing.

Faith mistook the Blooming Rose for silent. Her jaw muscles tightened even if she wasn't moving her mandible. This indicated... _could he be a former Templar?_

The postulation was interrupted by a sense of intrigue. If he was a Templar, it was unusual there no judgement in his eyes. Even if he wasn't, it was curious a stranger had paid her extra.

She could cope with immaturity.

"Come on through."

Thought ceased and the air around her silenced when the man followed awkwardly behind her.

It was annulled by the slithering coil, the chorus of her head that was the Lyrium's Song.

In her heedfulness, Faith, the one some of her regulars called 'Mistress', forgot to ask this man's name. He, while he knew her name, didn't ask her anything until they'd gotten inside. That evening, she knew, she would be crowned fool of Satinalia.

But that room wasn't where their story started. Any Rose woman knew. A night brewed from impulsiveness ended, and a relationship began, when one learned, and memorized, the man's name.

* * *

Faith finished noting her most recent customer's name in the record book. A mundane necessity for a repetitive day, only Lusine poked her head in the staff room door.

"Mistress," she said, "There is a Guard who wishes to speak to you."

She groaned and dropped the metal tipped pen. She hadn't seen any Guards for a few days and for a good reason.

"I don't want to experience the other night over again!"

That "drunk" bastard had been lying to mess with her. It hadn't been alcohol, but lyrium withdrawal, the lying Templar piece of trash. He knew she'd been a Templar of the Gallows once and decided to dig up her pain anyway. Then because he was so ill, he vomited and made her have flash backs which sent her into a panicked frenzy. It was a reminder of her own lowest times with withdrawal, something she wanted to distance herself from as much as possible.

She'd never trust an upfront payment again.

"Not that young man," Lusine said, knowing when Faith's outburst were worthy of scolding, "Another. He does not want your service. He is the fool's friend, carried him back to the Barracks."

Faith screwed up her face.

She knew. Lusine called the Guard a 'fool' but Faith was the truer fool. Trusting was the practice of jesters.

But she trusted Lusine enough, and there was enough trust there for Faith to know Lusine wouldn't put up with her making another scene for at least six months. There was little debate in what the right decision was, even if she detested it.

She stood to her feet. "I'm only doing it so I can prove you wrong."

The staff room door slammed on the way out, though she tried to fake a smile as she approached the Guard who had very heavy features. The other night had become such a blur, she didn't quite recognize him.

"Thank you for speaking to me, Faith," he said, and he held out a hand, "It's Corwin. I got Samson out of here the other night."

That voice. Like a Golem. She remembered _that_.

_Samson…_ Faith's eyes narrowed, _an appropriate name for manipulative trash._

She shook his hand. "Thank you for confiscating him. I'd have murdered him once I regained my sanity."

She smirked, though Corwin didn't laugh. He could probably tell she wasn't completely joking.

_At least my reputation has use, _she thought.

"I'm deeply sorry about that," the Guard assured her, "Are you feeling better?"

"Are you messing with me, Guardsman Corwin?" Faith now probably looked somewhat deranged. Her fake smile did not want to stay on her face with her angry eyes.

Corwin shook his head. He looked like the sort of person who was not intimidated by her. "Not at all, it was alarming."

The former Templar hesitated. If the Guard was messing with her, he'd… it didn't matter. The Guards were usually fine. It was the Templars, the treacherous dirt, that were troublesome. This Guard was like the others, _nice_.

"I am better, thank you," Faith said, tone loose.

Corwin smiled. Quiet thing. "What caused it? Did Samson say something?"

Faith reached her left hand to her right arm and gave herself a friction burn to stop the memory from returning and setting herself off again. Her teeth tensed from the sensation. "Vomit."

The Guard looked intrigued. "Don't you see a lot of that when people drink too much?"

The prostitute intensified her friction burn. "_Witnessing_ the vomiting. Hearing it. Smelling it."

"Watching… oh…" Corwin frowned, "Bad memories?"

Faith nodded.

The Guard looked at the floor for a moment. "I have them too. Wooden spoons…"

"Those are common in homes?" Faith inquired, suspicious.

"I don't ever go home." Corwin said, appearing slightly remorseful.

Of course. Faith understood that feeling… the desire to run.

She felt a bit guilty. This Guard was nice. Her spiked wariness of people should retreat back to its usual realm of slightly paranoid. Maybe he had something useful to say.

Faith stopped inflicting pain on herself, "Why are you here?"

Corwin cleared his throat, "Hm, I came to ask you to talk to Samson, though I imagine you're still incredibly mad at him?"

"Yes." Faith said bitterly, "He screwed me over. He made me feel vulnerable."

The Guard appeared confused, "So… the… you implied he didn't say anything in particular?"

"He deliberately kept information from me!" Faith retorted, "He came to see me and he didn't tell me he used to be a Templar! That's deception and misdirection. I don't _see_ Templars!"

Corwin crossed his arms, "You're angry because… uh…"

He was not grasping it.

The woman changed the way she was standing on her heels. Maybe she had to expand a little. "I'm embarrassed."

Corwin smiled in a semi-encouraging sort of way and Faith continued.

"Why should I talk to him? He now thinks I'm psychotic and mental like all the other Templars! I… My brain plays tricks on me!"

Corwin waited until the echo from the outburst dissipated before replying.

"He wants to apologize," he said.

Like the plug to a drain being pulled, her feelings crashed somewhere underneath the earth. She couldn't grasp if this matched with her interpretation of the manipulative Samson.

"Are you lying?"

"If you talk to him," Corwin said, "Then you can decide for yourself."

Faith crossed her arms. Talk to Samson. It had not been especially hurtful, until he'd revealed he had been in the Circle. She was surprised she had found it within herself to tell him anything about her time there. How did he make her vulnerable?

His story. The passing of letters, the dedication to help others, how he had tried and largely failed to impress a certain girl… how upset his friend had been to have her lover made Tranquil.

Loving a charge was seen as 'taking advantage' of the vulnerable. It was seen as harmful, using a position of power to a Templar's gain, or to disregard the emotional and intellectual needs of apprentice mages.

That was on Faith's Banishment form. It was probably still sitting in a cabinet in the Knight Commander's office. Though, when Ser Faith had hesitantly explained this to Rainie, the mage said her heart had already been taken advantage of… by love. Faith replied with, "Mine too." Charge or mage, the labels meant nothing.

Samson had seen her experience through a different pair of eyes. If they had known each other in the Gallows together, if they had been the same age, Samson would have defended her. The thought was comforting, and so she'd spoken freely.

It was devastating to have that ruined, both for her own frustration in reflection of the outcome, and in acknowledgement that she'd stopped keeping everything to herself for a little while. There was an opportunity for that to happen again. Dare she risk it?

"Is he feeling nauseous?" she tested, after a long stretch of silence.

Corwin merely shrugged and pointed, indicating that Faith should stop stalling already. "Check with him."

The former Templar looked to where the Guard was pointing and only spotted Samson because he was the most arched over, immobile and quiet out of everyone at the bar. No drinks. No rowdy joking or rosy disposition. He was out of his Guardsman armour today, possibly trying to sleep.

"No patrol?" she muttered.

Corwin seemed to understand Faith had already agreed. He head toward the bar. "I advise against asking."

"Hmm…"

She remembered when she used to have this same posture. It was not the way someone behaved when they were capable of doing much else.

The woman straightened her spine as much as she could and pointed her nose up high. The men would look at her. They always did. Though she did not want to give them any attention…

As she placed one metal heel in front of the other, she remembered when she used to wear bronze boots instead. The times she'd sulked, a far more manipulative person liked to give her a brisk hit on the back of the head, like slapping someone on the wrist.

Faith felt so filled with an offbeat interest in having the upper stance in this conversation, that she flexed her fingers. Lusine was right; this might not turn out to be useless. Maybe she'd not foreseen the possibility of Samson vomiting when she should have… But she still didn't want Samson to think she'd be weak and pathetic around him.

"Samson,' Guardsman Corwin assured as he reached his friend, "I managed to get you an audience."

Faith raised her hand high. It is a shame she is going to hit him. If he wasn't so sick, he would probably be able to block it.

As her hand collided with his head, as she heard the exclamation of pain, she laughed.

"Works like a charm," Faith said, flashing an unexpected grin at Corwin.

It is incredibly satisfying, though the cruelest fate is what she didn't realize, not until their conversation drew to a close.

The man wanted lyrium and information on it. The woman felt vulnerable again, being asked for something. Did she want to give?

Despite how nicely the conversation had gone so far, her wariness went on alert. Feeling protective of lyrium and herself, she challenged him.

He couldn't get lyrium too easily. He couldn't get _close_ so easily.

Samson wasn't going to give up so easily either. He looked close to frustrated. "What are you trying to prove, sister? We are still part of the Circle, we should be allies."

Peculiar that he would call her an ally, whatever that was supposed to mean. 'Sister'... she wasn't part of that life anymore.

"I want to forget that place," she replied, her pulse racing from discomfort.

Was _was_ she trying to prove? Maybe nothing. Perhaps she was afraid. She didn't like feeling or getting close to others, even if it was lending a favour. It was like a weapon being held to her throat.

Samson did not react how she thought he would. He didn't lash out with a verbal blade or insult her for not knowing her place. He didn't even roll his eyes.

She became enthralled by his smirk. She watched cautiously as he awkwardly scraped the chair closer and didn't know how to react when he leaned to mutter something in her ear. The words hushed delicately against her skin.

"Can I convince you to lower the price if I do your job for a little while?"

If a customer asked this Faith usually said, 'No, I live to serve you, sir'.

This young man wasn't like that. Her defences somehow, miraculously melted away, like he'd offered to acquire her gold. Unbeknownst to the reason, she didn't feel the need to hide.

"That depends," she said, "Are you the customer and how long is 'a little while' by your standards?"

Samson's smirk turned into a pleasant smile, even if it did not match his eyes. "That's your choice, Faith."

Faith felt like her very life was already bestowed on him. How rare it was for others to give her a choice. It... she wanted it to be a good idea. She forgot about thinking about intentions and exalted him, loosing herself in his eyes, and he did not remove his gaze.

She realized why she'd hit him over the head before. She wanted to find any reason she could, however menial or malevolent, to touch him. "I have an hour left. If you are able to wait that long, you might impress me."

Faith hoped Samson's smile was still genuine, "An hour isn't very long."

_It is when you're missing poison,_ she thought, but she felt uncomfortable at the thought of letting him know she cared.

* * *

When Faith finished work, she worried Samson would change his mind and decide an hour really was too much trouble, though it wasn't. He was splayed awkwardly at a spare table, his head on the surface. She peered at his expression, which said it all. The waiting game had been purgatory.

She pat the back of his head gently with two of her fingers, an apology for before.

"Should.." they couldn't use one of the rooms here. Lyrium was at home, so they'd go there, "Should I be impressed?"

Samson groaned in response, though slowly stumbled to his feet. He head to the doors, but Faith thought he said 'I pray' somewhere between his sluggish steps.

They braced the chill of Hightown.

As Faith stayed a few paces in front of him with no effort, she remembered how little she wanted to talk when she was experiencing the worst of her withdrawal. How bad were his withdrawal symptoms, given he only spoke with long pauses between the already slowed conversation?

"How..." Samson started, "the..."

_How was work..._ she guessed.

"Fine." Faith said shortly. Truly, she had little opinion. She'd been focused on leaving work... to be with him?

As she allowed the air to lick at her skin, she wondered what she wanted exactly from Samson. Should she leave him to his own devices? Did she want him to be vicious, or caring, or none of these?

All Faith knew was that, for some reason, she didn't feel intimidated or nervous around him. Why not? He was stubborn, like she was. They'd hardly known each other for a few hours. He was a stranger. A potential threat. There was every reason to be on guard.

No.

Faith briefly glanced at him, shadowed by the Darktown streets, like afraid he would spot her.

Samson wasn't a stranger.

The slow walk and the languid reaction time and the uneven posture... it was so familiar. Comforting, in a way. It meant she wasn't alone. This man understood part of her struggles, was currently living it. She had never met anybody who could claim to share any history. Her case was unusual, after all.

Samson was equally unusual.

"How..." Faith began, trying to find out what she meant to say, _how are your symptoms._

"What?" he said, sounding impatient.

"Are you feeling nauseous?" she said finally, remembering what Corwin had said earlier.

His reaction was delayed, "Don't... I'll... I need quiet for a bit."

"Fine."

Faith could do that, not only because she understood, but because she always used to walk home on her own. As she watched him drag his bad leg occasionally across the ground, she wasn't sure how to feel, though she kept that smirk of his in her mind.

It made her feel strong.

She wasn't sure if letting Samson into her home was an expression of trust or desperation, though she had not expected the calm, the confidence or poise as she opened the front door.

* * *

Faith liked that he listened to her stupid, petty demands. Take off her clothes. Kiss her. Touch her. Do this. Do that. Harder. Lower.

Her house didn't have an extravagant rug or heating facilities. She didn't bother to start a fire. It was chilly, dusty and almost pitch black.

He didn't once complain about the fact he was still wearing clothes or the fact they were not using the bed.

She liked that he was messy. This barely functional person didn't care about inadvertently leaving saliva all over her, traces of what were once teeth, lips and his tongue.

And then she remembered it was all for her stupid, fucking lyrium. She remembered that he was trying to fulfill his own needs and was really just being lazy and stingy. He didn't want to pay money for it. After all, she knew how much Guards earned. Even if he was new, he could pay for it. She would have made a profit too, enough to buy more lyrium than what she'd give away.

How dare Samson deny her more lyrium.

How dare he use her. How dare he… make her feel good.

_He's not kissing you because he wants to._

Samson.

The name kindled rage inside her, anger that he was using her, anger that she'd known this and agreed, and a loathing that she liked it.

What a monster was he to make her reach her peak.

How dare a sick person who shouldn't be doing anything but resting persevere as her demands become pettier.

Do two things at once. Do three. Do the first thing all over again. Do the seventh thing all over again.

She clutched onto him, pulled his body close and kissed him. The man is too weak and pathetic to make any sound beyond trying not to collapse, but he persevered. Even awkwardly crushed against her, she felt his hand spasm as it twisted to keep moving within her core.

By the dead Maker, he wanted that lyrium.

Faith's heart sunk. _Why doesn't he want me instead? Lyrium is in my blood. I am better than lyrium, I'm a living piece of it._

He was withdrawal, and she was addiction. Though she can't verbalize it beyond a scream. How dare he make her reach her peak again… and again… an orgasm can't be the end. She wanted more. She wanted him. To tell her she's beautiful, to tell her she's worth something. But he's too weak and sick to talk.

"Samson…" she muttered.

_Take off your clothes._

His knee slipped on the small puddle of drool from when his mouth had paid homage to her slickness. Uncaring, he used his trousers to clean it and his movements become ever slower. He groaned and jerked as his hand spasmed again.

_This does not mean anything. He doesn't care about you._

"Samson?"

_Get inside me right now!_

Samson, losing his motor coordination like the later stages of alcohol poisoning, rested against her like she was a blanket. He turned his head and she felt his exhalations from his nose tickle her ear. Like he is thinking of whispering something.

He doesn't care. That heartless bastard.

She felt angry again, "Samson!"

_How dare you not care about me!_

Samson placed his mouth against her ear. To kiss it? To bite it? To suck it?

Who knew. A disjointed purring hissed from between his teeth. He was too sick, too pathetic and practically asleep. He goes back to resting.

Faith said his name again.

_I hate that you make me feel so good, and there's no reason why you should be able to. I hate that you don't want me. I hate that you made me trust you in such a short space of time, because you're going to throw it away!_

She was so drenched and needing of him that when his finger trailed back down and he inattentively, and sluggishly stroked her nub she felt she could break her teeth from the apex of the heat. She smelled lyrium mixed in her sweat.

_I hate you! You fucking scheming cunt!_

He kissed her exactly the way she taught him to.

Faith swore between gasps of breath._ I think I could love you._

"Faith," he heaved. It is a miracle he even knew how to form words with that wayward mouth of his. "I don't know if I can…"

Faith opened her eyes. Reality was framed in a near pitch black, cold room.

It was over. In a flash, she forgot all her feelings. All biases went with it. There was only a man wanting mercy, somebody who craved for help.

The paranoia disappeared. For a moment both extremes collided, her guarded self, and the protective Templar from the Gallows. She was impressed by his resolve, intentions genuine or false.

So, she'd try to help him.

* * *

She blocked her ears and looked away just in time when he vomited again. Trying to stay calm, she cleaned it up.

His throat a croaky wreckage, Samson asked, "Why do you bother?"

_How can you not say thank you? Can't you see that I care? Do you want me to get angry?_

The woman offered her bed. Stay. The Barracks was too far, and he was already so tired. He was so incredibly sick.

It made Faith feel sick. When she had been in his position she had almost died. She didn't want him to leave. She wanted him to keep his job.

He declined, so she helped him walk back there. He had every opportunity to turn around, but he didn't. Samson went back to his stupid Barracks with a flask of lyrium he didn't want to take. As far as she was concerned, he went back to die.

It made her feel too much.

Faith stormed back through Darktown to her house, half disgusted at how her body felt numb, but satisfied beyond all possibility. Her heels slipped on loose pieces of gravel, the haze of the slums obscuring her vision.

Death? Fine. That was his fault. He didn't know what was good for him. He was not to be trusted.

_He called you a bitch. You don't need that._

The song entered her head. Louder. A pull, like Grey Wardens to the Deep Roads when hearing the Calling, dug into her throat, her stomach and her heart.

It was a different octave of Calling.

She shoved her keys into the door, though her fingers trembled.

_Turn it._ she tried to encourage the fear to dissipate, _Just turn it. _

But she knew what will happen if she did. She felt her soul scream louder than the song in her mind.

Lyrium. Need it. Lyrium. Fix it. Lyrium. Give me...

_I can't sleep in the streets_, Faith reminded herself, _if anyone finds me... I have to work tomorrow._

The woman moved her jaw from side to side while she unlocked the entrance to her house and opened the door, dreading the worst.

This was not solely a withdrawal craving for lyrium. Those were muted with the amount of it she takes every morning. It came from her heart, and it was a chain around her ankles, making everything harder.

"Fuck." Faith muttered, locking the door again behind her. "Stay calm. Stay calm. You're fine. Nothing has changed. It's the same as every other night."

The lyrium was only in her cabinet. So close. Her bones were brittle with the yearning.

Why was she upset anyway?

"This is normal. It's a normal night." Faith kept talking to herself as she changed back into her nightdress. Her knickers still had a damp patch from foreplay… or the after effects. Evidence of her... impulsiveness? Stupidity? Bravery? Desperation?

She tossed them to her dirty clothes basket under the bed.

"You're used to coming back here alone every night."

She picked out a new pair of underwear and slipped them on. Clean. Good. There was something still wrong, a wave crashing her to the sea bed where she knocked her head on a jagged rock.

It wasn't an ordinary night.

She'd have liked to have made him scream like he made her. A healthy Samson would be able to do so much more than this stumbling. Maybe he'd be less grumpy.

Her body started to move on its own. She was dressed for bed, though she picked up the lantern, somehow still glowing, and stepped in the opposite direction.

_NO!_ she screamed to herself, _GO BACK TO YOUR FUCKING BED._

Faith drifted toward the cabinet, gazed fixed on it like a regular person might a gift they'd saved up for months to buy. Tears filled her eyes.

Who was the real Samson?

_Step away._

She place the lantern on the bench, opened the cabinet and reached out a hand for her flasks of lyrium.

_You'll get to drink it tomorrow!_

Faith picked out three vials, balancing them carefully between her fingers.

_Put it back! Wait, like you always do!_

She closed the cabinet again and opened one.

She wanted to know Samson as a person. Not sick, withdrawal Samson, the one who can think quicker, be more patient and might...maybe... want to kiss her.

_I need it now._

She gulped down one vial while her conscience screams became noise, lost in the song. The chorus of the lyrium army was louder.

The former Templar opened the second vial. She hurried to her feet, found a spare rag in a draw, tipped the vial and soaked it blue, dripping with melancholy.

She carefully placed the empty vials on the ground and lay down.

Faith pulled down her knickers to her knees, splayed open her legs and, placing three fingers underneath the cloth, slipped the fabric up the space designed for lovers. She sighed, now too hopeful for the relief of a high.

Having Samson sleep in her bed tonight was best. She'd know what to do if he had nightmares or trouble sleeping. She could convince him to take the lyrium, ensure him there'd be a job to wake up to.

Now he was going to continue to act like he could take on the world. He was wrong about that, like he was wrong about many things.

The former Templar opened the last vial. Caught in her frenzy with no hope of salvation, she poured it down her throat and swallowed.

Faith tried to pleasure herself as a rush overcame every inch of her body, a whirl of all her orgasms combined. It hurt at first, too sensitive, but the sensitivity faded when she ceased to become Faith, but a goddess of lyrium.

They worshiped her. They adored her. They were always there for her. There was no longer a sense that there is anything wrong with the night.

Until it ended, for every high did. There was silence, a sense of disorientation and a whirl of disappointment, though it wasn't about the wish for the high to continue.

Rarely, if the crevice was deep or persistent enough, the meaning surfaced.

_Why did Samson decide not to stay over?_

Faith removed the fabric from inside her and threw it across to where the bin was. It probably hit the ground. She didn't care. She crawled to the sink to wipe off her make up and realized there were tears glistening on her hands, mixed with powder from her mask.

_He's gone... and I really tried..._

She remembered how she yelled and sworn at him. Sometimes trying wasn't good enough. She wished that it was.

Murky tears continued to drip slowly onto her hands.

* * *

The next morning unfolded in a jittery haze. Faith knew she should skip her morning lyrium to make up for her binge the previous night, but she took it anyway at the last second out of habit... or was her impulse from the previous night remaining?

_No. Today is back to normal._ Faith repeated this to herself like a ministration. Last night upset her but now everything resumed to its usual place.

Yet why did her mind continue to chide her?

_Samson might not be having a normal day. _

No. Today was normal.

_What if..._

_NO. Today is going to be normal. _

Annoyed, Faith clenched her teeth together. The lyrium's song was softer. She'd force normalcy if she had to.

* * *

The woman convinced herself that the day was normal regardless of when those around her expressed concern. It was a delusion she blanketed over herself. The others only led sickeningly privileged lives.

When her body went limp on one side she knew what it was. A stroke happened every few years. It hardly bothered her. Or was that what she told herself?

Faith had her mouth around a man's cock at the time. It only took half a second to make sense of why her vision had gone blurry, it felt like half her body ceased to exist and her leverage had weakened. It took only a moment to repair the situation.

It was fortunate her knees were on a rug so it didn't matter if she fell. To halt future hardship, she let her weight descend onto her ankles.

From here it was easy to make the motion look like it wasn't avoidance. She sat up straight, replaced her functioning left hand where her mouth had been and continued her work. She tilted her head so her hair masked the side of her face that wouldn't look right. It was almost over anyway, so what was wrong with trying?

The transition was seamless. Her timing was perfect. With a grunt she cared nothing for, the client got some specks of seed in her hair but most of it went onto his thighs and the bed he was seated on.

The man may be a client of hers for four years and a member of the Magistrate but that didn't change her presiding manner. Indeed, he was a judicious person, but ultimately he was a means to earn money and a distraction.

She sighed to gather her thoughts as Vanard did the same.

"How sly of you to leave this mess for me, dear Mistress."

He had a harsh voice, but right now his pleasure denied her being scolded.

Faith put on her usual polite smile. She only felt the pull on her left, but that didn't matter. He wouldn't be able to see the right side.

_I need to go out for a moment,_ she wanted to say, but she couldn't speak or it would become obvious what had happened. Her eyes darted to the side of the room where her clothes were. How was she supposed to get changed? How was she meant to get up and clean him? Shit!

Faith's heart pounded quicker. There was still a way she could finish her work. Swiftly she slapped the man's thigh.

_Get up._ she would have said. Instead she made a humming sound to imply she was too _tired_ to talk.

Vanard chuckled appreciatively, too content to argue, and slowly stood. As he buttoned up his red vest, Faith gathered the drying muck from Vanard over all sides of her left hand and slurped it off uncoordinated and messily.

Vanard's steely grey eyes watched her, confused. Faith couldn't help but see Samson's iris' instead.

The Rose appeared to stop as the song whirled. In her dread, she hoped that Samson had taken the lyrium. The Rose continued to blur, sometimes making everything an array of dots, then the picture came back. No one moved for a few moments, until Vanard brought a finger down to brush away the hair she'd deliberately used to cover her face.

"You're immensely lazy this afternoon," he said. He stopped as Faith looked down at her bare thighs. This person could not see what a terror her body was.

"And very quiet," he finished, abandoning her.

Faith tried to breathe calmly as her customer brought a hand to her head. "My dear, it is almost as though you have reverted back to your twenties. Try to act your age."

Sounds as Vanard redressed himself echoed.

If her body hadn't decided it didn't want to work anymore, Faith would have shook.

_Don't lecture me about acting my age, you bastard, I'm sick!_

She continued to breathe steadily and tried to think on what she should do.

The song made it difficult. If her panic wasn't drilling inside, she would think that displaying her stroke symptoms was the most rational decision. Now she felt afraid, and the voices blocked her from discerning why.

She heard footsteps and peered up. Vanard's boots were in view.

"I'm trying to talk to you." he said. The brusque voice returned in full force and pierced through her. "What has come over you?"

Faith shook her head. This was dangerous. She had no desire to answer the man's question, even if he was a customer. _No one_ was allowed to see the wreckage she was.

_Leave already, please!_

She wished she could beg for it and have her voice be heard.

_Please leave me alone! I don't want to talk about how I'm broken! _

"Very well." it was as though Vanard had heard her thoughts. "If you see it fitting to act like a child, then I will pretend you are one."

The boots moved, and Faith resumed staring at her legs. The words were not in a spiteful tone, but they still annoyed Faith. She was no child. She was more adult than any of these morons!

She was surprised when her clothes and heels were dropped to the ground in front of her. They were in reaching distance.

"Get dressed." he said, more snappish. "I need to go back to work but it would be hardly proper to leave you like this."

He was being helpful, but Faith could hardly focus. She stared at her clothes. How many could she put on and reasonably walk out? All Faith needed was to get downstairs to Lusine's office where her walking stick was.

But no. That would make her condition obvious too. There was no escaping it. She couldn't get out of here on her own. But she didn't want that to be true.

She didn't need help. She didn't need people.

Losing all inhibition, she spat to the pile of clothes the simplest phrase she could conjure. It was meant to be "Goodbye" but it came out as something even she couldn't understand.

There was an awkward pause.

"Andraste's remains. I do not know what game you are playing, but you will not play it with me." he sighed, angry or exhausted. "Thank you for today as always, though I cannot stay here any longer."

With that, Vanard left. In his haste, the door didn't completely close. Slightly relieved she was alone, but also enraged at being thought a little girl, Faith grabbed one of her heels with her left hand and threw it at the door. It shut with a resound bang.

Faith could do this. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her underwear first and let herself fall wherever her weight and balance dictated.

* * *

"Mistress."

_Shit. Lusine._

Faith stopped moving. She'd succeeded with the underwear and was starting to pull on her stockings, but they were difficult enough to adjust with two hands, let alone one and a non functioning leg. Faith knew she looked like a cat tangled in yarn, but she didn't care. Bewildered, she looked down at her legs as Lusine's hands grabbed hold of her ankles, uncrossed them and then yanked at her clothes.

As Faith tried to cooperate, Lusine said in a matronly tone. "I have left Cora in charge of taking payments for now, but her arithmetic is poor and she will hold up the line if customers don't hand her exact change. Your next customer has been rescheduled. We will get this done quickly."

Faith nodded. Lusine was the closest she had to a mother figure. As far as those persons's go, Lusine wasn't half bad at it. With some pathetic effort, the stockings were on.

"Once you are dressed Cora will walk you home." Lusine said, picking out the skirt from the pile. "I will rearrange the last of your customers. I refuse to have an argument with you about this."

Faith didn't care. That wasn't fair!

Lusine wasn't being realistic, even if she had a gist of her problems. Faith needed to keep working. She needed to buy more lyrium and make up for all the vials she'd lost.

She growled tried to kick Lusine, but it was such a feeble attack that it merely looked like she was stretching her toes. It was easily avoided.

Vanard was wrong. She wasn't a child. She was an _animal_, and those could fight their way out of anything.

"Stop that." Lusine said. "It is saddening, indeed, but do not get ire at me for what challenges the Maker sets you."

_THERE IS NO MAKER._ Faith wanted to scream. Instead she continued to growl. She fussed and flayed her arms about, despite cooperating with putting her clothes back on. Lyrium aside, she needed to go to the markets and buy more food.

Eventually once Faith stopped struggling, she couldn't even cry, though she did accept a quick rub on the back from Lusine as she handed Faith her walking stick.

* * *

Faith didn't care about strokes, but she _did_ care about relying on others. The walk with Cora back to Darktown was annoying and needlessly lengthy. The girl was younger than she was (of course, everyone was younger) and struggling to support Faith.

They stopped upon entering Darktown.

"Left or right?" Cora panted, looking unnerved by all the people staring at them.

Faith pointed right and their march started again.

Cora continued to blab. She hadn't stopped since they'd left. "The first customer that ever stalked me kept waiting around the district. I thought I was imagining it at first, but he always made an effort to talk to me. Once he asked to have lunch with me. I said no but he got really angry and weird. Then I think he was watching me a lot, because he kept getting closer and closer to my house." she shuddered, "but I got the Guard onto him. It was terrifying. I don't know how you manage that. I cried when I was explaining to the Guard what had happened, and then I had a few days off work." her tone brightened, "I feel a lot safer with you around. I bet you could kill someone with your walking stick."

Faith managed a smile. _Yes, I probably could murder with it. _

Cora stopped in her tracks. "Which way now?"

Faith knew which way her house was, but she didn't want to go there yet. There was someone more important she had to visit first.

She pointed left.

* * *

When Faith reached her doorstep in the dark, early hours of the morning, she almost dropped her walking stick. There was a body there. It wasn't of some arbitrary stranger.

_Samson_ was curled up on her doorstep. He was lying on his side and using his bag as a pillow.

_How long has he been there?_ Faith wondered as she moved closer. Dreading, she thought something else - _is he dead? _

Not wanting to over exert herself, for she'd already done enough of that today, she watched very carefully at his chest. It was hard to tell if it was moving.

She groaned.

_Why did he CHOOSE to lay down in front of the door!?_ she thought, irritated. What awful timing. She'd probably trip over him.

That wouldn't get in her way.

Faith moved as carefully and quietly as she could around his body and leaned against the wall. She hadn't fallen and she could balance. Success!

Keys. Yes, she had those now. It was time to unlock and open the door.

She glared down at Samson. It was still hard to see if he was breathing, but there was an occasional soft hissing coming from his teeth as he exhaled.

_Praise nobody the bastard doesn't snore._ Faith thought.

At least he wasn't dead, but he could have fallen asleep slightly _adjacent_ the door!

_I could kick him awake,_ she considered, partially driven by spite. No. He was probably sleeping because he needed it.

_How about waking him more nicely? _

The same dilemma struck her again. That wasn't the right thing to do. Samson needed sleep, and...

The rage and disapproval abated. She was grateful he was alive. The feeling was stronger than expected. It was _relief_.

Faith basked in that emotion for a moment. It was _strange_.

Hope also bubbled underneath somewhere, but by dead Anstraste she had no idea what that was anymore.

_Maybe he will be in a better mood if I manage to bring him inside without waking him up. _

It was an ambitious, kind hearted objective, but with one side of her body broken, it was going to be a lot easier thought than done.

Faith sighed wearily.

It was lucky it was late at night. Her next movements were going to look especially stupid.

Legs shaking, she moved her walking stick in the small area between Samson's body and the door. There was no room for her heels. Shit.

If she was able to move normally, she could simply lean over him, balance one hand on the door and then step over him to get inside. It would be quick and simple. That was not going to happen tonight.

_He didn't have had the foresight to know I'd be unable to move properly._ Faith tried to calm herself. She looked down at him again. He appeared peaceful. That was pleasant, at least.

Faith braced herself with the walking stick, leaned across, awkwardly twisted her torso and arms so she could open the door with her good hand... and wanted to cry. Opening a front door shouldn't be this hard, even with a person sleeping in front of it! Everything shook. The keys rattled.

In a hectic moment where she lost her balance, the door swung open. Her coordination couldn't be reclaimed.

Faith had enough sense to push her center of gravity forward, but it didn't stop her falling to the ground. She pulled on the keys as she fell and didn't quite get time to brace herself, but the pull on her arm lessened the impact. She groaned as her knees smashed onto the floor and her shoulder joint screamed from being twisted at an awkward angle. The walking stick fell onto her head. That wasn't supposed to have happened.

With unnatural jerkiness, Faith pulled out the keys, threw them to the other side of the room. Then she pushed her walking stick inside. She could grab a lantern, rest and then come back.

Bewildered, she turned her head around. By some miracle Samson was still asleep.

"What the fuck?"

What Faith thought she said came out in a slur.

This was all going to be embarrassing.


	12. Nidus - Home

_Authors Notes:_ Those who are following along may be confused. This isn't a new chapter but on recommendation of my beta I have turned a Faith one-shot I wrote for him into Chapter 11... so if anyone hasn't read that yet, there's the 'new' material. For those who have already read it, I added an extra scene at the end to link into this. Thanks to SteveGarbage for finally reading the one shot and your feedback. Never fear, I have the entire story drafted so I hope I can share the next parts soon.

After much debating I added chapter titles and split the story into sections so I can determine for myself what chapter is referring to what since I often lose track of it.

**PART 2: ADDICTION**

* * *

Samson awoke to a strong pain in his left armpit and found out why quickly. He was being dragged across wooden floorboards of a small dwelling by a hand hooked around his left shoulder, lit tragically by a lantern on the floor behind him. Half asleep and dazed, disjointed questions flooded the man's brain like when he had crossed the sea to the Docks.

"Get off!" he shouted, lashing free.

Samson was stupefied when whoever was grabbing onto him let go immediately, as though the person had wanted to rest for hours.

He scrambled to sit up, simultaneously feeling strong and extremely uncoordinated, as though his body had adapted to its dysfunction. It felt unnerving to have no pain across his skull, like he suddenly lacked a head. If that was the truth, it felt incredible to be without one, maybe he'd actually want it gone, but there wasn't time to savor his sudden energy. The lure of sleep gently grasped at him, reminding him to stay awake.

Twisting around, he saw a shadowy figure sitting on the ground with him, with long dark hair and a walking stick near her knees. Out of habit Samson reached over his right shoulder where a sword used to be positioned under his shield, but he clutched air and felt the sweat of his fingers. No armor. Nothing.

_Oh yeah,_ he remembered, feeling slightly embarrassed, _I was sleeping on that whore's doorstep…_

Like before, Samson no longer had a shield or a weapon to protect him from the elements and life's cruelty. He didn't even have lyrium, but an empty vial in his pocket. Cold, but a well loved gift.

The woman twisted awkwardly around to grasp the lantern and placed it in front of her, making her slightly more visible, though the light cast harsh shadows around the rest of the house. It _was_ Faith, but not the one the ex-Templar always pictured her to be, a portrait that left reality to the imagination. The man was startled to see her, _really_ see her, like in the past few days he'd never fully opened his eyes, trudging through a morning winter frost, an ashen distortion to his gaze.

Faith's attire… they weren't just _whorish_, but her corset rich with color and elegant stitching. Was her skirt always so… _foreign_ looking? Eyes were still the same, at least.

_Hold it…._

Samson tilted his head bewildered, suspecting the lighting was deceiving him. Those blue iris' _weren't_ the same. One of them had a half closed eyelid. It wasn't just that. Laxness dragged down one side of her face, although – he gave an amused smile - her lopsided frown was not entirely uncharacteristic.

_She had a stroke. It is not unusual for her, _Lusine's words echoed refreshingly quickly, like his memories had accelerated, _nothing that ought to demoralize you._

In the Rose, he didn't care. Samson hadn't been happy about anything, couldn't feel for Olina, the woman he'd pleasured for information. Now? Faith… remained a bitch, and so he still didn't care. Much. The fact he needed the help of a former Templar. Sweet Andraste help him.

It was only then Samson realized that her method of dragging him across the floor was anything but conventional. It might have been what wounded soldiers improvised when lacking a fully functioning body or two fish flapping hopelessly out of a net. She reached out for the polished cane and gripped it with some difficulty, her shawl gently brushing the floorboards.

"You're lucky I'm too tired to scream," Samson said finally, "Your ever so charming scowl is plenty reason to."

It was disappointing, but somehow he still felt irritated. Bewilderingly, now that his body had returned to 'normal' the annoyance felt stronger in comparison. Had the withdrawal muted his emotions or had his physical symptoms been so severe it gave the illusion of that? Maybe he had not been asleep for that long, or perhaps he just didn't like getting awoken in an unfamiliar place. He knew that he wanted to sleep still... maybe for an entire day.

Faith lifted her stick slowly and then let it fall to the ground with a bang, making Samson jolt, "A deas my shar sers you."

"What was that?" Samson repeated, wondering if she was feigning the slurring to annoy him. He had to admit, he didn't know much about strokes, but he didn't think her voice would sound so different… and infantile.

Faith repeated the sentence again and Samson strained his ears. Then he had to think about it. As he did, Samson's noticed his bag's contents were strewn across the ground. If he didn't know better he guessed she had thrown it before attempting to pull him inside.

At least his own voice sounded clearer to him, but The ex-Templar had to mutter the prostitute's strange words over out loud to make sense of them. Finally he thought he understood –

"_At least my charm scares you_?" he verified.

Faith nodded vexed, an even more indignant darkness to her cheeks.

"Where…" the ex-Templar began, but his thoughts halted from sheer overload. There was too much to say, and it was difficult to ascertain which question was the more important one.

"Ey 'oz out." she struggled to say, avoiding his eye.

"Speak English." Samson said angrily, not meaning to snap.

"EY WAH' ZAT SIDE."

Even with Faith repeating each word with greater emphasis, it still was reminiscent of sleep talk. It took a few seconds until Samson realized she just garbled '_I was outside_,' with much effort.

"I got it." he said, trying to make himself more comfortable, "You were outside."

Part of him wanted to add, _you could have told me,_ but this was an unfortunate impossibility. Not knowing still where he wanted to start with questions, the brunet decided to follow the woman's trail of thought.

"Madame Lusine was certain you couldn't go anywhere." He said, dissatisfied.

Faith's expression didn't change. "Lusine underestimates me."

Now Samson had somewhat gotten used to the slur it was easier to decipher what was said, even if he had to concentrate very hard to do it, and the woman had to speak pathetically and slowly, like half her teeth had been removed.

"Where were you?" Samson prompted, after the woman didn't elaborate, trying to hold back from screaming at her from the sheer effort it had taken to get here.

"I went to re-train as much as I could before tomorrow." Faith said, trying to move her bad side to demonstrate, as though the fact she'd had a stroke wasn't fucking obvious.

"Which means?"

"A healer." She said.

"Is that right?" Samson's trust in her was quickly dwindling.

"Yes."

Again, there was no expansion. The man growled. As tempting as it was to say he thought she had been ignoring him deliberately, this wasn't a good topic for conversation. Now he was here, Samson didn't want to get kicked out.

As though physical movement counted as speech, Faith nodded curtly, lifted her walking stick and used all of her remaining energy to stand to her feet in a very mechanical, slow, unnatural looking way.

_Knock me over sideways;_ Samson marvelled to himself, _she's fumbling worse than I did when I met her._

If anyone was moving around worse than him, for any reason, they were in trouble. Even as he pondered on this, Faith was still stumbling to her feet, struggling quietly. It was painful, even annoying to watch, like her struggle was his, that _he_ was limited in movement – a reminder that he'd failed to stay off lyrium, a notice he – as Zoe put it – probably looked as bloody awful.

The guilt, and sweet tits, the anger... This wouldn't do. He was different now. The lyrium had removed his disability. The man would not sit on the ground like a child while she peered down at him. He had been dejected enough sleeping on her doorstep.

Almost worried his leg would jerk; Samson crawled forward to pick up the lantern and slowly stood to his feet too, and found himself without resistance, something which was delightfully new. Surprised at his newly found freedom, he grinned, but any gratification he had now roles were now reversed was short lived. The woman looked like she would flip him off if it wasn't for the fact she was reliant on her walking stick.

Relishing his sinew, Samson didn't feel intimidated at the thought of confronting her about their clash the previous night. He had the upper hand here as Faith was less likely to retaliate when her body would literally prevent her from doing so.

"While you're trying to act like a normal human being," Samson began, scathingly, all his frustrations about her pouring out at once, "If you feel like being _polite_ and are willing to listen, I wanna harvest some of the thoughts from your monstrous head… or will that pester you?"

Unable to soothe his agitation, the scoundrel's tone more accurately conveyed that he would continue without permission, but it made little difference to the disabled creature in front of him.

Faith found her center of gravity and carefully lifted her bad thigh to step backward, presumably so she could lie on the bed, glancing at him to show she was listening.

"I've been rattling my brain stupid," Samson explained, and he took a step toward her, "I don't think the Maker knows how long, trying to figure out why you are so unkind around me. Do _you_ have any idea why, or am I a fool for asking?"

Faith nearly tripped over as she took another step back, but caught herself just in time.

"You are not any better," she mumbled, as though drunk.

This was half true, but it also fostered indignation. Samson may have sworn at her, told her to shut up, but it was retribution from _her_ storm,

"I might have… slipped, when I shouldn't have," the ex-Templar admitted, pacing from side to side. He didn't want to sit next to her, not yet, "It was foolish, spiteful. Sorry. I didn't mean to be a git, but before that, _before_ that… you…"

Samson paused, alerted to an abnormality in his comment.

He didn't _sound_ sorry. His emotions were too devoid of compassion, ripped from him in the waves of the night's turmoil. In more ideal circumstances when his pride was not at risk of being shattered, Samson would simply add another apology. That wasn't now.

The man thought it over a little more. Was there a kinder means to express his concerns? Cullen was way superior at this tosh, far more patient. Zoe might even surpass Samson in the art of expressing feelings.

Samson peered at Faith, and she was eyeing him like prey.

His thoughts were so palpable and crystal clear he could pick them out with tweezers. But there was nothing nice inside. He didn't want to think of his friends, not more than he already did, so he harvested what wasn't pretty and did not rip off the weeds.

"I don't give half a shit how nastily your past has beaten and dejected you." Samson paused, as though breaking up his thoughts would make them easier to assimilate, "Really, I don't care if it chewed you up and spat you beneath the Maker's boots. I was not part of it, but I am part of your present and your discretion has only made me hate you."

The woman readjusted her balance yet again and the back of her calves hit the bed. However, she kept her eyes on him, no indignation or perplexity on either sides of her face. This was already a hopeful improvement. Samson waited a few seconds in case her brain was mush, but Faith merely sat down with a trembling right leg and glanced at the floor, waiting for him to finish.

"I've had enough." He said, "If you truly consider us allies, sister, do your part to act like it, or we will be enemies under the same roof. I'm just pointing out the inevitable. I have met my limit. I can't do any more." He paused, "I recommend you choose smartly, and _now_, sister. Believe me or not, I can be as great a friend as I can be ruthless to an enemy, and… I don't like seeing merciful people get in trouble."

It was partial bluff. Samson didn't have any enemies, but he had a temper for Meredith. The nightmares of strangling her was proof enough he had the potential to make some. He actually enjoyed the idea of dueling the Knight Commander. He'd face Faith in combat if he had to, as well.

There was a prolonged blankness like when they had walked through Darktown together, but Faith, amazingly, didn't look angry, but rueful. It reminded Samson of when he'd spoken to her at the Rose about her panic attack.

"I don't know how to give you the answers you need," she said, finally, her smooth tone cancelling out kinks in her speech, "I have learned to close off the older I get. My trust diminishes more and more. It takes longer for it to build, or even stay. It is a constantly fluid." Samson still had to focus in order to understand. As such, it made him not reply so impulsively. Her response wasn't what he had expected, but it was extremely unsatisfactory.

"What do you expect me to do then?" he asked, completely stumped. Maker, she was making this _so_ difficult, like walking repeatedly into a wall.

The blue-eyed woman poured over her walking stick, like it held an important memory that had relevance to the conversation, and as she returned her gaze to his, it did not abandon him, only burned a pit in the bottom of his stomach.

"I do not deserve mercy for hiding my thoughts and stories from you," Faith said, and Samson noticed rudimentary movement on the dysfunctional side of her face, "for taking a brave stance and pretending there is no story, that there is no soul inside me," she lowered the wooden instrument on the ground, "Trusting another person is something I have not done in a very long time. I have forgotten how to do it."

There was a pause. Samson wondered malicious things – like how pathetic did someone have to be to _forget_ how to show common decency? And how could she sink so low when she'd once been a Templar? But Faith was displaying sympathy, and that was something. He felt comfortable enough to approach her on the bed, but sat with a meter gap between them, placing the lantern on the floor.

The man wished his hearing was better, and annoyed she couldn't, literally, string two words together.

Samson didn't know why she had the stroke but wasn't prepared to ask. Not when there were more urgent matters at hand.

The prostitute appeared to find the expressions for her next thoughts, but her voice was quieter, like she wasn't aware an elaboration was necessary.

"I'm sorry, but I can't explain it any better right now," she said, "I have been intolerably unfair to you… I don't care if the Maker knows or not…but if you give me time, I will try to make it up to you…."

"What good is that to me?" Samson demanded, unable to hide his frustration, "You say time has only made you close off to others. How will _more_time fix it?"

Faith sighed and leaned forward to unclip her heels.

"It will naturally happen." She said, and Samson leaned forward to in an attempt to hear, "As you see how I live, the questions will come. They always do." The woman paused, "to help gain your trust, all I can promise is that I will try to answer your questions… with minimal creation of more," she smirked at her own joke, her bad side struggling to match it, "If I don't, I will someday. That's _my_ limit."

Samson shrugged. This still sounded like a raw deal, but it wasn't like he had much choice, and Faith _was_ being nicer this time around. If this was really the best she could do, it's not like complaining would fix anything. As more questions came to mind, he continued to keep his head in line with hers.

"What time is it?"

"Night."

"Funny…" Samson said bluntly, not finding it the slightest bit humorous, but the woman managed a half smile. Now free of her shoes she slipped off her stockings.

"I have another question."

"Yes?" Faith asked.

Samson picked out a nicer thought. "Do you have any food?"

The whore's pupils shrunk dramatically with a look that screamed, 'how are you not dead yet?', but she pointed to the kitchen and said, "Larder."

Samson jumped up faster than any human should be able to move, and scavenged around in the other side of the room. The woman would tell if anything had been touched. Careful.

The house was surprisingly bare. There were scraps of papers and notes on the kitchen bench, but all names were written with initials, probably invoices or receipts. It was difficult to tell where lyrium was kept, because Samson didn't see any. He'd sworn she had picked it out from here the other night. Last time he was here, the place was gritty and gloomy. It was still drab, although each pattern of the stone, wood and flecks of dust were easily seen. Such peculiar details to notice, just like the larder itself, hidden in a corner under what appeared to be a tablecloth that had been once loved.

There were rolls of bread and a lonely slice of smoked trout inside. Hoping he wouldn't get his innards speared, the man tried to leave some, chewed into it and paced back to the bed.

As it was forced down his throat, his stomach didn't seem to know what food was for a moment and felt uncomfortable, but when the pain faded relief came. There was no talking until he swallowed every last bite, but Faith was too busy undressing to care.

"Thank you," he breathed, feeling euphoric. He let himself fall back onto the bed, happier than he had been in a long time, "Blight take it, I forgot how good it was to have something in my stomach."

Faith ignored him, too busy unlacing her corset slowly with her bad side. Samson, not knowing whether he was allowed to watch or not, just lay there peering at her…. until Faith spotted him and shook her head. It didn't matter that he had seen her without clothes before. He found himself intrigued by how the experience would differ when he was feeling more functional. The woman either knew that Samson was far more alert this time around or still appreciated privacy.

"I'm intrigued by what you said last night…' the man spoke to the cobweb covered ceiling, "about me being able to visit at my own discretion."

"What?" Faith inquired. Thankfully, she was near enough he could still hear – but more importantly, understand – the slurring.

"Guard Captain Ewald gave me the boot," Samson stated, "So I'm wondering under what circumstances I can… _stay_."

Hopefully she understood Samson meant it as a more stable living arrangement instead of just poking his head in for tea. Besides, he didn't like tea.

Samson listened to the sounds of moving fabric as she continued to undress, enjoying the act of _resting_ far more than a normal person. It felt like a luxury he'd enjoyed once years ago.

"Give more than you take." She said smoothly.

"Is that how it is?" Samson wasn't sure if the question was rhetoric or not.

"For now."

It was certain. Faith was giving him the bad end of the stick. There were still many interpretations of that sentence, but Samson understood that staying at someone's house came at a price. It would take time to see exactly what he would have to pay.

"Am I welcome right now?" the man probed.

Faith seemed pleased that Samson was testing these boundaries now rather than later. She hummed approvingly and he heard her crawl on her bed and put something on.

"Yes,"

Unexpected to even him, a wave of relief came over Samson, peace that he wouldn't have to worry about housing, hopefully not for a while. But he had to give. What? Coin? He didn't have any, not a job, no means of earning any. What was he going to do about that?

_Shit…_ Samson thought, dread turning his insides to stone. He doubted she'd show mercy for something so critical, but before he could voice it, Faith tapped Samson on the shoulder. Repressing his reluctance, he peered around to look at her, noticing a cherry and gold night dress. It looked like it once belonged to someone else, as parts didn't quite fit, but Faith seemed to like it.

"Did you ever hear what Guylian said about lateness?" she riddled.

"No." Samson replied honestly, not having the slightest clue of what she was talking about. What did punctuality have any relevance whatsoever… to anything?

Faith's askew smile filled him with sudden, delayed concern.

"Pity." She said, and Samson already knew this was one of those puzzles that would be left alone, "Can you get a wet rag from the sink?"

The man scowled, but Faith shrugged at him, as though to say, 'I don't care'

After picking the lantern off the floor, reluctantly, Samson went back to the kitchen and was mortified to see a rag stinking of vomit soaking in a bucket. It looked like the water had been changed once, but guilt chilled him. Why did it look familiar?

_That whore… helped me with that… right?_

The picture returned sneakily, with the tense pain in his throat and head being the defining factor. Yes, Samson hadn't caught everything in the bucket, and yet, he was no wiser as to why she had cleaned after him without a single insult. She had been bothered when he asked.

How did he forget something so important?

_The poison_, he reminded himself, suddenly filled with an irrational urge to smell some. No, right now he had to do what Faith asked.

After rummaging for a while, Samson found another rag on the bench, soaked it with water, squeezed it out and returned to the bed, marvelling at his newly returned strength, like he had suddenly slayed the Arch Demon. Normalcy, if that's what this was, it was a gift taken for granted by too many. As the scoundrel met Faith's eyes he was surprised again when he felt emotions, a strong, unpleasant regret. Just yesterday she had been playing this role with him. Last night _he'd_ been the weak one, the pathetic one… it wasn't right that the roles were switched. There was no fairness in this, no compassion. Her blood vessels simply decided no, they didn't want life. Faith wasn't allowed to be this way. _She_ was supposed to be his shelter. More than this rejection of her condition, Samson was astounded that he did feel some sympathy for her after all.

"Do you feel like you're in one piece?" he asked, sitting down on the bed and balancing the lantern between them. It was enough to illuminate the two and not much else, like gathered around a campfire in the wilderness. Seated, Faith was nearly a head taller than him, but he could still see her.

Faith yawned and waved a hand. So they'd be no chatting about that either. She took the cloth from Samson with her faulty side and, with the incoordination matched only by him hours ago, pressed it to the top of her forehead and dragged it down, wiping the make-up from her face.

The acute uneasiness was sudden, incomprehensible, and ridiculous. Without warning, heat rushed to his head and Samson peered away.

_Snap out of it!_ He scolded himself, _it's just her face._

It was no good, the feeling persisted. Samson stared at the tough material of the bed covers, surprised he could think clearer too. It wasn't _just_ her face. Andraste's piercing fire, in removing the make-up Faith was also taking off a mask, maybe a lot of them. Her identity to the majority of Kirkwall for the past how many number of years had been built around her job at the Blooming Rose. How much of her appearance was dictated by her boss, and how much was her own doing? He, in any case, had never seen her without it. Neither he suspected had many people.

There was a sound of Faith wiping the cloth over her face again and a pause.

"I didn't realize I was so ugly," she said, putting her hands down.

She wasn't, but Samson didn't know how to say that. He met her eyes and smirked, harsh words falling from his lips before he had the conscience to stop them.

"I already knew you were."

It wasn't true. Saying this was wrong in context, but he could think of nothing else. Faith's face was not all that different, and yet, Samson hadn't realized how well the woman had disguised her appearance before now.

His heart slowed, quietened, as though to keep clear of her attention.

The ex-Templar didn't know how it felt to have his heart destroyed the way Phillipa's had, but if he had to guess, he suspected looking at Faith right now had something to do with it.

The woman didn't answer, but in her scrutiny rest unspoken questions and curiosity. The man was tempted to add he was joking, pressured to rectify his comment, but it didn't come. In perplexity, he said nothing.

Was there a chance the prostitute felt equally thrown, similarly unhinged?

She nodded, as though she already understood his response, and tried to smile. It crossed to her bad side unevenly, but the lack of symmetry in her face better represented the dichotomy and duplicity she possessed.

It was only then, in that stillness, where Samson took in her features, fully and completely from up close without the hindrance of an aching head.

He was not surprised nor bothered to acknowledge the lines on Faith's forehead, something he had seen before, but scattered along her temple were blotches where the tiny blood vessels had burst, like permanent bruising. Her skin had a somewhat leathery quality like she'd worked in the mines for years. Lastly, a matrix of thickened blood vessels, so blue they were almost black, criss crossed erratically like bindings along one side of her neck, jawline and crept up to her eyes, tree roots seeking fresh earth.

This was the feature Faith hid to perfection, the detail that eliminated Samson's capability to speak, but not because the blackened pattern was grotesque. It would be puzzling if Samson didn't know what he did about her, if he didn't respect her. An average citizen would find it repulsive. Not him.

The brunet thought they gave Faith a fitting edginess, but there was also the restraint of worry. It appeared blood magic gone astray, something unnatural. How long had it been there? Was it something that was destined to go, stay or get worse?

It allowed Samson to greater picture of who she might have looked like in the Gallows. There, only the stupid wore layers of make-up, for sweat would melt it off like icing in the dry and humid seasons. Her Templar self was not the only identify immediately visible here, but the part of her that was terrifying and damaged.

"Did I get all of it?" Faith asked. By the slight break between words, she was also absorbed in the moment, her pupils enormous, nearly eliminating the gorgeous blue. The man couldn't figure out why he hadn't noticed this either. No ordinary creature shared this.

"What?"

Samson averted his eyes to stop himself turning red. The woman knew he had been staring.

"You know." She said, brushing aside his rudeness.

"Yeah," The ex-Templar interrupted her before she could finish. It wasn't that he had seen anything, but he didn't want know she was humble or just plain sick to get up and check in a mirror herself.

Faith tried to raise an eyebrow on her bad side, and it shuddered with weakness.

"No." Samson said hurriedly, surprised of how nervous he was, "Just shut it. I h-haven't checked yet, I…" he cleared his throat, "Give me a second."

Taking a deep breath he examined her face again, but not for the obscurities between her mask and real face, but for powder that still clung to it. After feeling immensely pouring over each broken blood vessel, he spotted some black sections around the edges of her eyes and eyelashes.

"There," he said, gently pointing them out with a finger, but taking care not to touch.

Faith almost looked like she blushed, but with her bronze skin it only made her tone darken.

"Will you… help?"

Samson felt his insides tremble. He didn't want to know what would happen if he did this for her, but if it was anything like he felt already, it would be powerful, "Can't you leave it like that?"

"I can't sleep with this on!" she shouted, "I only have one other bed sheet."

Samson laughed. She sounded ridiculous being angry with a slur.

Faith realized her mistake, "Please."

He took a shuddering breath, picked the wet rag off the prostitute and spent a few moments manoeuvring it so he wouldn't be smearing the old makeup back onto her. Finally, he held onto the crown of her head to keep her steady and slowly pressed a pinky finger worth of cloth to the corners of her left eyelid.

"You're a baby," he said, trying not to let her flinches stop him.

"You think that's clever?" Faith said, "I could practically _cradle_ pathetic you in my arms."

"Yes," Samson said, as a shrewd smile arrived to his lips, "I think you'd enjoy that too."

Faith rolled her eyes. When she was done he held her eyelid down with a finger and cleaned that. He wasn't good at this, and the lantern sometimes made it difficult to distinguish between shadow and make up, but he would keep at it until the job was finished.

When that time came, as Samson scrutinized his work, he watched the functioning side of her mouth for any sign of emotion… and in the process remembered the tingle from his lips the last they'd said goodnight in the Darktown emptiness.

What had that been from? She had left… no… before that…. The woman had walked right up to him and…

_She'd kissed me? _He wondered to himself, somewhat alarmed,_ I didn't imagine it._

How did he keep forgetting these important details?

Why the fuck had she _kissed_ him after their spat? Mad woman!

The man's puzzlement must have shown on his face.

"A problem?" Faith inquired.

"Of course," Samson said, "I'm wasting more than half a second of my precious time looking at you."

Someday he might recall that Maddox had made a joke about this with Zoe, but the relevance was lost on him then. Here, his joke was received as it was intended.

"One of my many charms," Faith lamented with a crooked grin that reached her whole face for a moment, "Madame Lusine would be happy if I came into work looking like this."

She ran a finger around the black lines near her eyes. Was Faith trying to imply she was considering working?

"If I was allowed to," Samson said, not knowing what prompted him, "I'd still come see you."

"Not unless it was free."

"I made myself broke finding this hole," he remarked, "so…"

"So?" Faith urged.

"Thanks for dragging poor me inside," he finished, sullen, like a child forced by a parent to apologize, "even if it was painful."

Samson brushed off the last of Faith's make up with a finger, grasped the lantern and got up from the bed to put the rag in the sink. He wanted to know more about her strokes, but she had already decided not to answer.

When he returned a different question came to him, "Should I curl up on the floor?"

It turned out, to his bewilderment, the bed might be an option by the way Faith pulled the covers down, climbed under them and eyed the second pillow.

"If you walk far enough in the dark, I won't see anything while you change."

Samson, not wanting to show discomfort, spotted his bag on the floor and positioned it somewhere further away. He had just been thinking something similar, and he wasn't in the mood for her to see him, even if it had all been seen before. Still, he could tease.

Sniffing in dust, he turned so his back was facing her and pulled off his shirt, letting it fall to the ground. He still had muscles, but it probably looked unhealthy and pallor.

"Unlucky for you, I'm used to changing with Cullen in the room," Samson said, and then he realized Faith probably wouldn't know who he was talking about.

"Rutherford?" she queried.

"The same," Samson said, twisting his neck to look back, "You know him?"

"Some of the girls at work giggle about him," Faith remarked with a smile, "It's very annoying."

The man shuddered and realized he was covered in sweat, somewhat surprised that Cullen had made such an impression. When Samson was in the Circle, the two had not visited the Rose together. Maybe his old roommate used to go by himself.

_That elusive bastard…_

Trying not to think about this, Samson stepped far enough into the darkness that he couldn't even see his own body. Maybe when he was feeling vindictive he'd ask Faith for some more information to poke fun at this roommate.

He changed as quickly as he could manage unless the woman was inspired to throw the lantern in his direction, or simply at him.

"Does anybody make _you_ giggle, Faith?" he wondered, remembering Olina's question. Even if she had been set into a fit of giggles by somebody, Samson found it hard to imagine, just like he couldn't conceptualize Nathara being a servant in Orlais. It was because of this, the man wasn't sure whether he was surprised or not when Faith didn't answer.

"You can sleep in the bed," she said, once he was dressed, "but lay a finger on me and I'll break it in half."

The woman was lying somewhat oddly on her side when Samson returned.

"Threatening people isn't nice, Faith," he said with heavy condescension, "Didn't the _Chantry_ teach you that?"

"I threaten when I feel threatened," she replied coldly, recoiling as Samson moved under the covers with her and lay on his side, "it doesn't matter how you feel or think. Sometimes threats have to be made."

_Yeah, when you're mental..._

"I wasn't going to touch you anyway," Samson said, telling the truth, moving even further away from her, "I'm too fucking tired."

_And you're mental._

Faith let out a long breath, obviously relieved, "Good."

Samson picked up the lantern from the middle of the bed, opened the glass, and blew it out, placing it on the ground.

Maker kill him, he had meant to ask about the plan for tomorrow. Now he couldn't. Not when his fingers could be snapped off. Was the strategy to cuddle, or something worse? Being hardly able to speak, to have Faith go to work would be a bleeding miracle.

_Unless,_ Samson reminded himself, _she's as stubborn as I am._

It was this shared hot headedness that made the ex-Templar think this stupid idea to go to work anyway was extremely likely to be the case, damned the consequences.

"What if _I_ feel threatened?" he asked, after a few moments of silence.

"Shut up."

It took a few moments until Samson understood this was her demented way of saying goodnight.

The ex-Templar turned over so he was facing away from the prostitute and shut his eyes. It was a shit bed compared to what he was used to. The Barracks and The Circle always had decent sleeping quarters, but Samson found he was far too exhausted to care at how the mattress felt unstable, smelt of straw and the sheets were so old they were almost sandpaper.

_So this is how ordinary Marchers sleep, eh?_

Samson realized he could no longer remember what the bed at his parents place had felt like. Probably for the best.

As he fell asleep, he was comforted by the faint scent of lyrium in the air, radiating from the woman beside him. It smelt like heaven.

In the dark, it was hard to believe he was anywhere but home.


	13. Merso - Plunge

A din of the collision of waves and rock pools resounded from afar. It was not reminiscent of leisure and respite, but the scream of Samson's thighs and arms as he jogged across the sand of the Wounded Coast in full armour holding a heavy sandbag to his chest. It was Templar training, so this happened often.

"Knight disciples! You've got 800 meters yet!" he remembered one of the trainers saying, the only person who was allowed to stand there and look smug! "If anyone drops the bag they get push ups, so _pace yourselves_."

Pink and purple blotches lurked from behind Samson's eyelids as the light headedness of impending collapse brewed under the dewy morning glow. No one groaned, there was no reason to express fault, but _everyone_ was pushing through hell.

Ser Bailey shouted from behind.

"Ser! I think Samson's going to trip over himself!"

"Pacing is for underdogs!" Samson knew that he'd said it, in a very high voice at the time, but no one answered him. Maybe it hadn't been audible. There was only the drive to win. He had to prove that he was worthy of the Maker's Knights.

Soon he ceased to smell his own sweat or perceive his hair sticking to his neck. Then he hadn't been sure if he was still running at all.

The adolescent collapsed twice in drills, having pushed himself beyond his limit despite recommendations not to. Seconds before fainting the third time training on a cliff of Sundermount, he apprehended the advice had merit. Maybe falling to his death wasn't a good idea. He was fourteen then.

The clink of metal shattered the illusion.

* * *

From the crudity of the mattress Samson thought he was curled on the doorstep, absorbed in the routines of the newly awakened, but that couldn't be right. Sleep was too perfect, a luxury that didn't feel earned or deserved, and his form was too free and warm to have endured the frightful night.

Disorientated, he lifted his head and saw a tall woman illuminated by a gap from the grubby periwinkle curtains. Particles of dust danced in the air. She placed the silver bucket on the ground with a rattle as dirty water slurped into the drain.

Samson didn't know why he was in a house with her for a moment, so blinked a few times expecting it to change, but it didn't.

He knew that bucket.

The situation returned to him. Faith had let him stay. She was being sympathetic for some reason…

And she was very interesting to look at. Samson was as fascinated by her slight hunched posture and the garments veneering her. The walking stick was held like an envoy's weapon, contrasted by the suavity of her hickory and gingerbread skirt, tied above her waist with cloth like steel.

From the frill of it all, Faith was dressed for work. But she couldn't go there! She was recovering from a stroke, for Maker's sake. Stubbornness be damned, was she that thick?

"Faith," Samson grumbled, finding his voice.

The woman lifted a rag from a hook on the wall to wipe her teeth. Either Samson was too quiet or she ignored him.

"FAITH?"

Faith groaned, turned her head and said, "Nwot' Hime Tark."

_No time to talk,_ he translated internally. He needed to get used to her slur again. Although Samson appreciated talking took longer with her speech impediment, he needed to make his worries known.

"You need to be somewhere?" he offered smoothly.

Faith tore the leaves off a small plant and nodded unctuously, a reminder to keep quiet.

Like that would stop him.

"Resting isn't a cleverer idea?" She shrugged, so he added, "I was convinced your very blood thrived on outsmarting me?"

"The high road is a steep climb." She said, chewing on the leaves.

Samson wasn't quite sure what she was referring to. He knew now more than ever working in less than full form wasn't smart. It made a person vulnerable, and he didn't want to see someone else do the same. It looked far stupider of a decision from a third party perspective.

At least the Guard went out in twos or threes. What if pushing herself wiped Faith out for good?

"I hope you know what you're doing," He said, holding back from arguing.

"My precious Samson," Faith drawled, finally turning to him, "You forget. I'm a big girl, this is my house, and you're misjudging me," she swallowed the leaves, "Now, you can fret all you want, but you'll have to wait until later if you want big girl me to coddle it better."

Despite talking slowly and in theory having more time formulate a response, no come back arrived. In fact, Samson went a little red. He wasn't a child! He didn't care if it was some whore thing!

He muttered a string of disjointed words under his breath, variations on 'coddle' and 'don't need it', 'you're full of rubbish' and 'stupid'.

The clatter of those blasted shoes and her walking stick was distracting. With every sound, the former Templar was reminded that he'd soon be alone. More urgently, that Samson didn't have a plan and he needed one.

It was when the prostitute outstretched her weak hand to the door handle that his panic revealed itself, barely concealed.

"What am I meant to do?" he demanded.

Faith raised her walking stick with her good side and pointed to the table.

Was there something on it? Samson couldn't see.

The woman gave a rueful smile as she opened the door and the cane stomped on the floorboards once before Faith was gone.

Maker, the light was excruciating, like the sound of her.

Samson rested. He breathed fully and sensed the warmth of the bed on his skin without conflicting discomfort. Had Faith gone to work or was she going to that so called healer instead? Could her customers smell the lyrium on her breath like he could?

Even if the arrangement was not what he was used to, he felt comforted and at home like he was in the Circle again.

_I better take my philtre before I leave,_ he thought absently.

Still wishing he could sleep, he turned to Faith's dark bedside table and pulled at the draw to open it.

Nothing happened.

_What?_ Samson wondered, turning to look at it. The small furnishing was balanced on the ground like one of its corners was uneven, but despite the scratches, it looked like it had been a beautiful red mahogany once.

"I did it _again_," he groaned, having made this mistake every morning in the Guard. Pulling at the draw was a compulsion grown from over a decade of taking lyrium every morning from the philtre in his quarters. Curious of why it hadn't opened at all, the man tugged again, but it was not close to budging, almost like it was a pretend draw. Had it been artificially sealed? Faith from years ago had shared this habit. Maybe she'd also tried to break it.

Only this time was different. The former Templar didn't have the same urgency to move. There was no larger calling or duty to a greater good. There was nowhere he desperately needed to go and no deadline to meet.

_You have to drink it. _Samson thought, hardly knowing if it was truly his own voice, _You always had to take it._

No, those were only memories. It was a habit. Only a pattern of behaviour he'd acted out many times. It could change. He just had to find something to do instead, even if it felt weird.

Faith's house was the perfect opportunity to do that. At least he didn't feel a craving… at least, he didn't _think_ this was that. Those were meant to be vicious.

_Read the letter,_ Samson reminded himself. He forced himself to reach the table. It didn't feel like he was in his own body as he did, but it certainly knew how to walk, even if he felt wrong, like skipping breakfast or not putting on clothes.

The table was so small. Perhaps its designer had started planning it for an adult but had to change it to a child's at the last moment. There was a quarter drunken glass of water and a scrap of white parchment with rose lining. A pair of keys were holding the paper down. Trying to disengage from the pull of routine, Samson watched his hands pick it up and his eyes turned to slits spotting that something had been roughly scratched away. Initials.

Someone had lived here previously. All questions suppressed, there was only one individual the brunet guessed it might be.

_Was it the mage? _

Hadn't the apostate merely helped Faith for a short time and let her be on her way? Had something more happened?

If it did, keeping these was irksome and he didn't know why.

Ignoring this, the man picked up the piece of paper. Faith's handwriting was difficult to read.

Samson, look for Meeran. I presume you've heard of the mercenary leader? He's around the Docks during the day. Tell him I sent you. He will give you some work. We can talk more later. Don't come looking for me. – Faith

_Faith's asking me to work for a bunch of criminals_? Samson wondered. _Does she think I'm as thick as I look? _

The scoundrel became familiar with Meeran's name as gossip from the Templars, but knew what lay behind the face from his ever-brief glimpse in the Guard, although Samson had never spoken to him. If one had to, it was a warning that bad things were coming, usually spit on the ground for a start. The Red Iron had sneaky ways of operating and since the workers near seamlessly blended into Kirkwall, it was difficult to tell who was working for him and who wasn't. The leader himself hadn't been convinced for anything, so there was no rationale to take him – but smarmy Ewald knew Meeran was full of shit. Nathara, Brennan, Corwin and Dirt said _suspected_ Red Iron Mercenaries got caught on occasion, but never Meeran. The label was never attached. There was just one wrongdoer here, and another blockhead there. To Kirkwall the Red Iron leader was a job provider when there was nothing else; but to the Guard he was a sneaky bastard. They were all a bunch of rats.

Did Samson want to take this opportunity? He could report Meeran and many others to the Guard if he witnessed any law breaking, but that would destroy Faith's trust, and Samson wanted that more. He needed her hospitality and connections to the lyrium trade, if only not to die, and for that he had to work. Screwing Meeran over would also likely put Faith in a difficult position if she was on reasonable terms with him. It would fuck everything up for Samson all over again. That wasn't worth it.

There was little choice under his time constraints and Faith's disability. Desperate times called for desperate measures.

_Even worms have their glorious moments. _Samson mused thoughtfully to himself. _Maybe Meeran will come in good use_

It was a vague hope, something which might as well be impossible, but it convinced him to get ready for the day and take up the offer.

* * *

Samson was not alone in his work struggle at the Docks. Unfamiliar refugees, families and children sat on the ground near Lowtown's entrance again, though the solidarity was an anodyne. Was Meeran trying to prey on these wary travelers?

He'd be hungry like them soon. If Samson had to guess, his pathetic excuse for breakfast would barely last an hour. How could Faith survive on so little?

_The Harbourmaster is the bloke to chat to if you ever have a patrol here, _Samson recalled.

There was a plan. Stepping over an empty crate, he weaved through the bicker of Cullen-like accents until the Free Marches one was domineering.

Now the man's concentration was fuller, the harbourmaster's stubble covered features didn't come across as any more welcoming.

"You seen Meeran anywhere, my friend?" Samson said as politely as he could.

"The slime is fishing, believe it or not," the man said with a voice so lazy it was like politeness was a chore, "I would only get close if you wanted to get a hook shoved into yer throat….almost got in a fist fight with a runaway who wasn't nice yesterday morning."

"I was wondering so I could keep a distance," Samson lied dryly, intending to give thanks but couldn't remember the lad's name.

"Urgh…." The harbourmaster groaned, and he raised his voice, "Aden! Stop dawdling! You won't impress anyone doing nothing!"

The former Templar wandered off just as the young man called Aden groaned and stomped away from a woman with a long, flowing dress.

Samson found Meeran gutting fish at the water's edge, half a block from sailors and boats. This part of the Docks was quieter. The edge had little railing, was slippery and generally was an invitation to break one's neck.

Anyone with a speckle of vanity who spotted Meeran did a three quarter turn and walked in the opposite direction, so this made him easy to spot. Samson, like most people, recognized the balding man for his velvet clothes – the vision of an upper class man who didn't deserve it.

"You're with the Red Iron?" Samson inquired, pretending to be an innocent stranger.

The stench coming from the slimy declivity was malodorous, but he didn't screw up his nose. Instead, he looked at the scattered crowd on the far side of the harbour.

Meeran grumbled and turned to look at Samson, the fine lines on his forehead obvious in the broad daylight, "You wanna know? You better have some bloody coin on you."

The stony faced mercenary scooped out fish guts with his gnarly nails and dumped the fish in a dented bucket filled with water beside him.

"I'd like some work, if you have it." Samson said, feeling stronger than he had in a while. He gave a gracious thank you to lyrium and Faith. Even if he didn't have a weapon on him, he knew he could run away in a flash.

"Ha!" Meeran barked amused and flicked some fish liver on Samson's boots, "You think you can just _ask_ for work, like it's that piss easy?" The voice was assaulting to the ears, "I've seen you around. Pretty sure you couldn't even do this."

"You haven't seen me anywhere," the former Templar said carefully as he sat down next to Meeran. He tried not to crack his head open as his footing skidded on the slippery surface.

It was possible that the man knew Samson by sight, but he hoped this wasn't the case. "Faith said you would make an exception."

Like to add effect, he flicked the innards off his boots.

Meeran's expression completely changed, and he peered at Samson with an almost parental concern, his golden eyes riches among the muck of the Docks.

"The ole girl hasn't gotten her brains knocked out of her, then?" he mused.

Samson wondered if the two had been close. No one made that much of a face about an acquaintance.

"No."

Meeran smiled so wide his teeth looked pointed, "She's still at that whore house."

"Yes." Samson replied, wondering where this was going.

The mercenary looked out at the boats coming into the shore, small models from this distance. "I'm not allowed to see her there," he said slowly, abandoning the fish in front of him, "The daft cow that owns the place wanted to skin me alive."

"Was it deserved?" Samson asked before he could stop himself, not really wanting to know the details, though he couldn't justify why he cared either.

Meeran's face lit up in a sick way, knowing the remembrance shouldn't be touched, "I'll put it simply. Faith didn't like how I thought of her. She wasn't fond of how I behaved."

Samson thought he'd seen the worse of Lusine, but this meant Meeran had done more than make Faith be terrified of her own memories.

He really did feel sick now, and he despised nausea so the feeling compounded upon itself. Olina had mentioned the banned list, but it was a different story to see one of its exiled.

There was another mystery to this. In condemnation Meeran knew what Faith thought of him. Meeran had somehow cracked open her defences. Samson couldn't figure out if this was good or bad. If Meeran had pushed Faith beyond her limits, it was either something truly sinister or the woman had overreacted. If the two held each other with some level of respect, maybe she hadn't jumped the gun. The thought of a Faith whose outbursts were justified was disturbing.

"Can I do something now?" Samson repeated, in an attempt to squash his discomfort.

The Red Iron leader picked up his blade once more.

"You can do this manky job if you're desperate." Meeran said, "I hate the smell. Reminds me of a crapper or worse."

"Why do it then?"

"I'm meeting some miserable bastard who didn't do his job right." the mercenary spat, "I'd rather get some half decent grub than screw around," He handed Samson the rod placed on his right, "You can keep the fishing rod. Tell Faith it is a welcoming gift for her new friend. Looks like it's been put in places it's not supposed to."

Samson tentatively took the metal device, feeling befuddled. It had some kinks and was rusty at points but didn't look much different to normal. "Will you hire me?"

"Like I said, I'm waiting for a guest. Don't make an ass out of yourself and we can chat in a ruddy moment. Straightforward."

"You expect me to sit around and do nothing?"

"Are you broken in the head or something?" Meeran scrutinized, "If you got any money you'd just spend it on food anyway, won't ya? Do you know how to fish?"

"Sort of." Samson admitted, reluctantly.

In truth, he had no idea. His parents used to buy their food from the market and thought it was too much effort to teach him not just fishing, but many things, like tying schoelaces, how to play cards or mopping a floor.

_Fucking parents,_ Samson thought, irritated.

Meeran told Samson to watch for onlookers, so he did. Meanwhile a male in his early twenties wandered off with Meeran… somewhere. It was impossible to hear anything besides the chatter of faraway citizens and refugees. Samson waited unsuccessfully with the rod in the water as fish got away, making a mental note to buy more than food when he had a chance.

A Guard patrol in this area could be covered in twenty minutes, if there was no standing around to keep watch or intervene. There was a good chance they wouldn't be seen if he moved quickly enough, but the former Templar was worried of rumours flourishing if anyone saw him with Meeran.

_Don't fuss. Lots of folk see Meeran for respectable jobs too, so it's fine. _

What kind of jobs did _Samson_ want?

The blonde kid didn't return, but Meeran did, not looking any the wiser. It was obvious then why the Guards rarely bothered or got in Meeran's way, he riddled in secrets and did it well…. Not unlike someone _else_ Samson knew.

"That scumbag's not so _lucky_ anymore,"

The mercenary chuckled and gave Samson a rough hit over the head, something else that was familiar, but by the tone of voice Samson thought it was the man's way of showing affection.

"Good to see your bumming around has a use," he said approving, "and you didn't steal anything. Even better. What's your name?"

"Samson."

"Why do I know that name?" Meeran wondered, although Samson didn't answer. "Does your family have a heritage?"

"Samson is my last name." he said, "I prefer it to Raleigh because my parents always pronounced it stupid."

Meeran clapped Samson on the shoulder, a sneaky glint in his eye, "I know which one I'm calling you by then."

_Andraste kill me_, Samson thought. Being called by his first name was even worse than Headache.

"Let's have a chat, Raleigh."

* * *

Meeran took the lead and still feeling somewhat uncomfortable, Samson kept far enough away to not being associated. They paced to an alleyway that had more to it than it appeared. They maneuverer awkwardly through a side door, which lead to a tunnel, and that lead to a ditch, where a locked door lay inelegantly between some jagged rocks. Inside some stairs was a storage space in an underground cellar. It was foul, wrecked with the stench of mold, in such a place that no one in the Guard or the Gallows had approached it. Even if they had known it was there, it would have been avoided from a safety hazard or simply assuming it was uninhabitable. Samson again, remarked that he could report this to Corwin or Brennan.

_I have to shut up for my sake_, he reasoned, _and Faith's… and Zoe's…_

The list went on and on, yet here he was, hiding out with the leader of a criminal organization, something he thought he'd die before doing. It was more perplexing than the notion that Cullen might have spent years sneaking out to the Blooming Rose without Samson.

The brunet put down the fishing rod and bucket as Meeran started a negligible fire among a pile of old junk with a firesteel, and used it to light a number of lanterns in the corners, illuminating the area.

They could see each other now and a small table with five ill matched chairs around it. The granite slabs looked moist beneath his boots as the two took seats.

Meeran's rough appearance was like darkspawn in this rut, but he took a key out of his pocket, unlocked a small cabinet and removed a sheet of paper.

"How many times have you stuck your puny cock in her, eh?" he said, once the paper was on the table.

_What now?_ Was Samson's initial reaction, taking a second to realize Meeran was talking about Faith.

"None." he said. It was the honest truth, but the mercenary's eyes widened more than they had before as he played with the firesteel in his hand.

"You expect me to believe that?" he murmured, menacingly.

Meeran had a point. If a person knew a whore outside of work there came the automatic assumption of philandering many times, but their interactions weren't like that…much.

"I've done a lot. Sticking it in her isn't one of them." Samson added, feeling proud and extremely inadequate both at once. He realized, now that he felt functional, that he wouldn't mind if he had. It was like the urge for lyrium, unwanted but compulsive.

The mercenary scraped a hard line into the table with his firesteel, surveying Samson as though sensing a lie.

"How did you meet the girl?" Meeran said suspiciously, "she's never been one to make friends…. If that's what you call your sad selves."

This was the strangest job interview in existence, if that's even what it was. Samson hesitated, contemplating whether or not he should lie. Olina thought Faith mixed with a despicable crowd, and while Samson couldn't get the wank into trouble, making Meeran feel emasculated would be a mimic on that satisfaction.

"She approached me at a tavern." Samson made up a story, "apparently I caught her eye."

The ex-Templar smirked at the look of shock and near envy on Meeran's face, exactly what he had hoped for.

"That cock tease…" Meeran snarled, rightfully confused, "How in the name of Andraste did that happen?"

"You expect me to know," Samson challenged, "with a spirit as wild as hers?"

He felt stronger. This was good.

Meeran crossed his arms and examined Samson suspiciously, "If you're bullshitting me I'll break your teeth, even worse than that cocksucker from earlier."

"Why would I lie?" Samson queried.

That seemed to shut Meeran up, but he rubbed his chin in thought.

"As particular as Faith is..." Meeran said slyly, bashing the side of the bucket with one of his boots, "I need to know your skills so I can give you the right jobs."

Samson hesitated. How much to tell? "Faith and I share knowledge."

"What, like holding a fork?" Meeran said, though he settled, "You a Circle pup, then?"

"Yes," Samson hesitated, "I spent time in the Guard too."

Leaving out getting fired was best.

"Interesting," the mercenary picked a motley of small notes out of his pockets and read them at strange angles, turning them over, then upside down, "The workers change if the job doesn't fit, sometimes for the better – but I'll see if I've got anything..."

Samson tried not to move; unsure by the way Meeran kept inspecting the paper to Samson. "This. It might not fit, but I'll watch. I want to see if you have as much in common as you say. Can you bargain?"

"I can." Samson said, although he felt disheartened that he hadn't done anything close to this in a long time. Convincing parents to let their children go to the Circle was the only time he had, but still, it sometimes ended unpleasantly.

"Then I'm sure you're endowed enough to ink up paperwork too," Meeran said, sliding the paper toward Samson, "Read it well, Raleigh. We don't just screw around for laughs. There's a structure to this cell, as crap as it might look to some."

"I never thought there wasn't." Samson said, picking up a metal pen nearby. He filled the usual details without much trouble: name, age, previous job history, but his eyes lingered on the rules curiously.

* * *

A Red Iron mercenary is bound to unique governance, described as follows. In joining, the aspirant understands that breaking these results in harsh consequences, as determined and assessed by the Leader.

In signing the aspirant attests to:

…Distance his or herself from kin - whether related by blood or comradely.

….Throwaway partial and all ambitions of mother or fatherhood. A partner is only accepted if not bound by matrimony.

…Help fellow Red Iron mercenaries when encountered, whether by passing of information or providing tools or finances. Do not forcibly remove weapons from any person, member or otherwise, even the undeserving.

…Take responsibility of another Red Iron's deeds, irrespective of severity, if one hears that another member is under investigation.

…If in conflict or a dispute with another member, seek the Leader to begin a formal inquiry and resolution proceeding.

…In the event of such a process, if the Leader decides the other member to be guilty, the innocent is permitted to enforce a punishment.

….Only gamble when one has the finances to cover ones errors or misfortune.

….Direct those enquiring about the Red Iron to the Leader.

...Not lose one's ability to think clearly when consuming alcohol, potions, powders or substances.

…Not involve The City Guard, Templars or Seekers of Truth with anything related to the Red Iron.

… to not involve one in activities that involves these communities. Involvement with the Chantry is not advised.

Follow through on one's word or get someone who can.

… In the event that a Red Iron Mercenary declines or abandons work to keep operations and members under total confidentiality.

In departure, employee paperwork will be kept under scrutiny indefinitely.

* * *

_The rules make sense,_ Samson thought, feeling slightly euphoric that he had this information that the Guard didn't have. But in signing, he had to say goodbye to the part of himself that cared about these things. Working with the Red Iron meant isolation and secrecy, something that the Guard and Templars strongly discouraged. They liked teamwork and commonality.

Samson's heart sank. He appreciated these values too, even if he didn't see his friends much anymore anyway.

_I can do this…_ he thought, feeling stronger now, _even if I didn't, I'll learn. I have to. _

His childhood wasn't much different. He had gone for very long periods without speaking to anyone at times, and although he'd forgotten exactly what that was like, he knew it had happened. Samson had kept Phillipa and Maddox's secret. And – his spirit felt lighter - by these rules Faith was technically allowed to be in his life.

_Get stuffed, _Samson told himself, _just do it; otherwise you might as well let yourself die. _

Feeling still uncomfortable, but less so, he signed.

"Tell me about that job."

"A lad wants to get back at his ex-wife, Wera Devereux for not paying back a loan of 300 sovereigns." Meeran explained as they got to their feet. "It's all written here – take it, that's it. I doubt it'll take long, but it'll have to wait till later because she works during the day. Meet me at 18 00 in Lowtown. Do you have armour and weapons?"

"Not yet." Samson said, sadly, hoping this wouldn't be held against him.

"I'll lend you one of my blades- but you better have it next time I see you or I'll take the expenses from your pay." Meeran explained in an undertone

"Yes, Meeran." Samson said. While hesitating and indecisiveness was something he had gotten very good at in the past week, it never seemed to apply for work matters, not when he put his mind to something. There was a sense of pride to this. If he had sliced down possessed mages in the name of the Chant, he could do anything. He had to ignore his protests for justice.

"Good. If you're even half a second late, I'll give the job to someone else."

Although it was tempting, the ex-Templar didn't inquire more about the hide out.

* * *

Samson was extremely grateful upon returning to the Docks that he didn't feel the need to hide, for he blended in much better without Meeran around. As annoying as it was to sell an old pair of his clothes to a refugee in order to buy bait, it had to be done. He needed to get more food. At least he had the fishing rod.

Then he couldn't fish.

_Blasted – sitting around shouldn't be this difficult!_

A thickset refugee spotted Samson struggling to multi task between fishing and trying to copy someone on the other side of the harbour.

"My son had such an attitude he gave up," he said, with a warm smile hidden by beard, "but if ya like I could give you a hand."

For once Samson was grateful someone had noticed him failing at something.

He peered up at the man thoughtfully, "Haven't you got something better to do?"

"If only," the Fereldan admitted, sitting down at the water's edge beside Samson, "I've been looking for work for a week now. Anything would be better."

The stranger's clothes were fraying at the seams, but Samson didn't mind.

"Alright."

They introduced themselves. This man's name was Warren.

"You're from?"  
"Killarney. Blight is as good a reason to move as any, eh? You're from around here?"

Samson smiled, but wasn't sure what to say to Warran. He didn't want to talk about the past.

"Darktown." He half lied.

"The Chantry is very crowded, but Darktown is chockers too." Warren said, and realizing Samson wasn't going to talk much said, "How about I show you how to catch something."

This Fereldan was a patient and gentle instructor, and his knowledge of fishing was in depth. This kept the conversation going, which seemed to please the stranger. Samson had been starving for a while when he caught his first one and put it in the bucket.

"You wouldn't know where the jobs are hiding?" Warren asked when Samson plunged the sinker for the fifth time.

"I'm wondering that myself, mate," Samson muttered, feeling pleasantly sympathetic, "maybe the Darkspawn came to Fereldan looking for them too."

Warren laughed, and told Samson about his son, whose attitude had made his wife extremely cranky as of late, not helped by menopause. The refugee left when someone else approached Samson… a person he did not want to see.

"I was wondering when I'd gaze upon your pitiful eyes again, woeful man,"

Was he hallucinating? Samson peered around and glared at Knight Commander Meredith. She looked just the same, with vicious eyes and a red cloth covering her head, shadowed greatly by the sun.

"The new Knight Captain told me you were working with the Guard," she denoted smoothly.

"_Was_," Samson agreed, then wanting to disparage her, "I decided to live a _better_, simpler life."

"Uncomplicated," Meredith noted, peering at his bucket, "it appears to me you have a certain finesse to cultivate yet."

"I did not grow up with much," he muttered haughtily.

"We commence with pettiness to become greater beings," she followed along, much to Samson's amazement, "I too, was raised under the scrutiny of disaster, but is that not why we pursue to restore this world to its merited form? I do not see how living with undeveloped habits will do that."

Samson paused. He didn't really know what he was doing, but he was alive, and that was important. Until he could try to change the world for the better again, he had to determine what 'better' was, for he certainly didn't agree with Meredith's definition.

"I introduced myself to a remarkable creature in the Chantry not long after you departed," the Knight Commander ventured, stepping out of the sun's rays so Samson got the full blast, "Andrea. I understand you are acquainted by mere cobwebs, if naught else."

Why did the Knight Commander continue to bring up sensitive topics with him? What purpose did it serve now that he was trying to fish in Kirkwall?

"How is she?" Samson muttered, trying not to show weakness or resentment at the mention of his mother.

"I would not know," Meredith said, "_No one_ does. She was a capricious individual, younger than I presumed. A sister said Andrea Samson had been a cleric for many years until becoming a Chanter."

_What?_ Samson's eyes widened, but he managed to stop his jaw from dropping. In his youth, his mother had been a sister with next to no money. In letters, she envisaged doing great things. Chanters were those who only spoke in lines from the Chant, making them near impossible to converse with.

He felt thwarted. That wasn't Samson's definition of greatness, but giving up the self. If his mother had done this, perhaps it partially explained his deep seated desertion. It explained why she'd stopped writing to him in the Circle – because her burning Andraste was more important than her child. Bullshit.

The Knight Commander saw the turbulence in Samson's posture, but continued anyway, with a smile that was difficult to interpret.

"I was told she was once intelligent," Meredith said, almost sounding impressed, "I thought, how _extraordinary_, that somebody steadfast to confiscating herself from her own thoughts can justify helping in our refugee crisis, when those with fuller minds refuse. I felt dejected, Samson, for you. The one who birthed you is the description of impracticality. Sister Petrice said Andrea kept her son a secret from many, and now, it will be all. I understand that must be exceptionally testing." Then, his former superior said something the man never expected to hear, "Please accept my commiserations."

She spoke as if Samson had been on good terms with his mother or spoken recently, but that was not the case. They hadn't written since his Templar training had been completed at 18, even _before_ then the letters were increasingly infrequent. This information was new, and it emphasized that he had made the right decision not to approach the Chantry. He listened to the gushing of water, rumbling of boots, and screeching of wheels crossing the pavement as he pondered, unsure of whether to accept or reject the empathy. It made him wonder if he was deluded, but Meredith from his imagery would never be so kind, either.

_A cold heart might use what was left in a strange way, _he reasoned.

"I do," Samson replied dour, reeling in some of the line, "but I don't like thinking or talking about it."

"All the more reason to give my well wishes," Meredith said, looking out at the ocean, "there is much to acquire from life's hardship, and to discard. The question remains of dividing the prize and the deception."

"You're being nice to me," Samson said, unsure of whether it was a query or an accusation.

"I recommend you do not ruin my fleeting display of open-handedness," Meredith said coldly, "You understand what will happen if you do." _No, I don't,_ Samson thought, "If such a disappointment occurs, I do not want to see your name displayed on a banner like the rise of the next Divine."

"What?" Samson did not know or care what she had just said. _He_ hadn't wanted to see Meredith.

"I have powerful connections in this city," she said slowly, "I will not hesitate to do what is necessary to keep Kirkwall in a righteous state, something that will become difficult as the Blight endures."

"I don't care about Kirkwall," the scoundrel pointed out. Yes, he had in the Guard and the Circle, but at the moment his personal survival and comfort was his main concern. Maybe his love for his home would return later.

"No, but Ser Cullen does," Meredith said, "I question why his judgement flounders when it comes to you, but I did not want to leave you here, disappointed, on ill terms with me. Now I must return to the Circle and tell Rutherford what I saw today."

Samson paused. _He_ was still angry at Meredith. She hadn't exactly apologized for kicking him out, she just said she felt sorry about his family situation. It was nice, but not what he'd wanted. Maybe, somehow, this might make her not be bitter toward him.

"What did you see?" Samson wondered.

The Knight Commander paused and looked back with a flash of comfort in her eyes, "I see a man fallen and battered, trying to steal back refinement… making leisurely, but measurable progress."

Samson chuckled. Meredith wouldn't be saying that if she knew what he planning to do later tonight, but the sound was interpreted positively. She didn't look angry at him, merely _content_.

He used his departing line again, wondering if Meredith would actually respond this time around.

"Have fun dealing with idiots,"

For whatever reason, since the Knight Commander was in a good mood, she called dismissively over her shoulder, "Indeed."

* * *

_Authors Notes_: I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. It wasn't beta-ed so I'm taking a risk posting it. Let me know how you find it! If there are any suggestions I can go back and tweak it.

Thanks to deaconrayne1 for his help on mercenary stuff. Also, I adapted the rules of the Red Iron from the Thieves Code of Conduct, which is part of 'old style' Russian organized crime.


	14. Scelus - Malice

Samson kept his head low. The crisp evening air and the darkening azure as it adjoined the horizon was only a reminder that he was stepping into an unknown. It felt more like preparing to dive into the Docks. Would he escape with untainted thoughts and an absence of sickness? Would he manage at all, since there'd always been a conspiracy theory of ghosts living in that water? With his foreboding, the man was more willing to believe such a joke.

He rubbed the covering of the dagger Meeran gave him in his pocket with a thumb. Like lyrium it was a compulsion. The leather sheath was patterned with what he thought was the fur on an animal, perhaps a bear or other predator.

Samson glanced at Meeran through the tunnel of sundry attire to ensure he wasn't guided away by common folk. They were too far apart to be considered a pair, and truly, it didn't matter _that_ much. The Red Iron leader always had company of some description, he basically knew everybody, but that wasn't the point. It would be very easy to be spotted by his peers, as Hightown had guards every few meters. Templars were less often encountered, but still a possibility. Even if this job was innocent, Samson wanted to avoid any misapprehensions. He felt jealous of those retreating to taverns or home after a long work day. He was tired, despite having spent most of the afternoon doing nothing and memorizing the details of the job Meeran had given him. Conjuring the memory incurred a sigh.

"_I'll give instruction if you get stuck. Forthrightly, I don't give a toss about you. You so much as hesitate at what I say, you're useless to me. You get a job, it gets done regardless of the means. Is that crystal, Raleigh?" _

Negotiating was something Corwin, Maddox or Phillipa were better at, but it wasn't that he couldn't do it. Following orders was something he was _excellent_ at in his Circle days. Confront parents about their mage children? Been there. Forcefully remove mages from a dwelling? No problem. Kill a possessed mage? No issues there either. The concern was more how he could justify violence, even in self defense, since he was no longer convinced that the Circle's ways were right. Was anything _right_?

He didn't want to be a predator.

Raleigh Samson always remembered that first shift with Meeran, just as he recalled his conversation with Nathara, but this was worse.

The house was average for posh, if there was such a spectacle. The cream window sills were adorned with neatly trimmed vines and silver flowers.

Samson knocked his usual three times, like investigating a mage to bring to the Circle or how he'd always knocked on Phillipa's quarters to pass a letter. He didn't like being watched by Meeran. The mercenary leader was probably critiquing his door knocking technique.

A woman probably in her late forties with Orleasian inspired clothes answered. She recognized Meeran immediately and moved the door to a slightly more closed position.

"Yes?" she said in a high voice, like a person who'd been accused of consuming chocolates bought for a gift. She was rather large, and if that was any consolation, she probably couldn't fight, but suffocate a person with a bone crushing embrace instead.

Samson pretended he was gathering a mage to disconnect from himself.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your evening, Madam Devereux," he said, with as much niceness as he could manage, "I'm here to erm – _discuss_ – the recent financial worries of your husband. Before you get shifty, please, I am only here to _talk_ to you about it." Phillipa would say that more eloquently, though he could hope for the best, "How can I accommodate you?"

Devereux's sigh came out like a rattle, "I didn't think he'd sink that low."

Samson paused. She hadn't answered the question, though he could guess what her comment implied. "I'll make sure Meeran doesn't bother you."

There. He had copied Phillipa, the strongest memories he had of someone good at negotiating. Then again, he had been deceiving recently with Olina too. Maybe he was good at this without knowing it.

Samson tossed a solemn smile at Meeran, telling him to back off. Awkwardly, the leader also replied with a smile, but Samson didn't know what it meant. Crap.

The woman stepped to let them inside, "Cause any trouble and you'll be walking backwards on your way out."

"Thank you," Samson said, not replying to the notion of trouble. He didn't _want_ trouble, the same as he didn't with mages to bring to the Circle.

The two entered. The interior was stunning compared to the outside, with ivory stone walls and rugs soft enough to lie down on, although this ostentatious dwelling wasn't only blessed by its architecture. The woman had arranged each cluster of flowers, lavish frames and furniture symmetrically with the same duteous space apart. The effect was disenchanting and unnatural.

The oil portraits of musical instruments and festivals could have been from any other manor, but the defining feature of the Devereux's estate was the elongated draws along every wall with ornaments and on them, statuettes of sea creatures, carriages and animals carved from wood or stone. There were a lot of these surfaces. Was this woman a collector?

The client offered seats, which they took. With a sense he was not as methodical as everything else in the room, the former Templar unconsciously moved his boots so they were in a rectangular formation.

"I'm guessing by the way you hesitated at the door that you don't want us here." Samson began.

"Not at all," Devereux replied shortly.

"I'm told you owe your ex-husband money." He pressed.

"I don't owe him that much."

She was guarded with her arms and legs folded over each other and didn't seem keen on talking either. This might be difficult.

"Will you tell me about it?" Samson said, feeling kind of stupid. He didn't usually talk like this! He didn't even _think_ like this.

It was like a spell, something that worked instantly. The woman's eyes widened and she lowered her hands onto the table.

"It was out of generosity," she ventured, voice hesitant, "Marcus told me I didn't owe him anything. He gave me somewhere to stay temporarily while we separated. He resided here with the children."

She sounded bitter at that last part, angry even.

"Are your children here?" Samson said.

"They're with him."

Her arms crossed again. Damn it. What would his old roommate Bailey say?

"What if you were with your children?" it didn't _sound_ like the people he was trying to imitate, "What do you think they would say about this?"

Devereux's eyes flashed, "It doesn't matter what they think!_ I_ deserve to keep this place, because he took them away! He ruined my life. If he didn't divorce me, would this have happened? No."

Samson's lips tightened into a line. Try again. Widen perspectives. Approach the problem from a different angle.

He was running out of angles.

"What if you were your ex-husband?"

The woman laughed, "I would stick to my word. I wouldn't bother my ex-wife. That traitor. He turned on me!"

The ex-Templar sighed. There was no negotiating with someone so dead set in her opinions. Besides, she was beginning to sound more and more like an entitled bitch. His patience was dwindling. "How would you like this to be dealt with?"

"I want you to leave."

"We will leave if you give us the coin." Samson said slowly, despite going back on his earlier word, "Even if it's unfair, then your husband won't bother you anymore. He won't resort to worse means."

"No." Devereux said stiffly.

"Why is it so important you get to have your way with this?"

"I can't believe you're asking such an imprudent question."

_This is useless,_ Samson decided. Now he had thought of what others would do and it hadn't worked. What means did he have left?

He realized with dread that this _wasn't_ like recruiting mages. If there was resistance, Templars could pull out their swords and remove the mage by force. This was bargaining for a precise sum of money. They couldn't just _take_ that.

Meeran, as though reading Samson's mind, rose to his feet straight faced and unassuming. There was a pause, as both parties wondered what the man was doing.

_Don't bother her,_ Samson thought, irritated, _there's a decent way to do this. There has to be. _

Or… was this job a trick?

Meeran's gaze held no answers. He picked a glass ornament in shape of a ship off one of the many glossy surfaces and held it out.

"How much is this one?" Meeran said, "I know plenty who would be fucking overjoyed to have something like this in _their_ house."

There was no empathy in the tone whatsoever. The woman didn't answer, but Samson caught eyes with her brown ones. Her fear reminded him of all the pain he had felt in the past couple of days. Maybe he didn't like it.

"Perhaps you'd like to explain to this gentleman why _you_ left your husband." Meeran said calmly.

As poor as Samson was at talking personal matters through, this seemed like the shit route to take. Mages didn't usually threaten, demons did, and he'd barely encountered their trickery in all his years in the Circle. They'd just die. No one _bargained_ with the bloody evil things.

Devereux whimpered, "He lied!"

Samson cringed as the Red Iron leader let the ornament fall and it smashed into a handful of jagged pieces, turning the floor to a glittering mess. Not having much else to refer to, Samson was reminded that divorces were the most complicated form of social conflict in the history of Thedas and should be avoided at all cost.

"No, Devereux," Meeran said softly, "you're filthier than dirt."

Samson felt really uncomfortable now, but he stamped it away with angry, deliberately placed thoughts. It was similar to mental focus training but with the words flipped on its head. It was a Chant of Darkness. He wasn't sure it would work, but he had nothing else to go by and the Chant of Light would only encourage him to abandon the scene.

He couldn't leave.

_That woman is the enemy. She's evil. I hate her. I will hurt her. I'm here to do what Meeran says. I am his puppet. I follow orders. I will act when he says and do exactly what he says. _

It felt false, as everything new did, but anger built in Samson's body like a furnace, burning more with each passing second. Reminding himself of the people he would dearly want to make suffer made the thoughts more genuine.

Meeran picked up another ornament. This one was shaped like a bird, "I'm sure these are worth the loan."

"Please don't break them!" the woman pleaded, hurrying forward, "They're all I have to remember my marriage by."

Had the husband _given_ her the money or _loaned_ it to her? If Meeran and the husband were right, the wife kicked him out. Did the man change his mind out of bitterness or was the woman lying? It was impossible to figure it out.

_She's crying because she's useless. _Samson repeated again, trying to stop analysing the situation_, She broke a man's heart. I hate her. I will hurt her. The Maker will have mercy on me for destroying. I follow orders. I will act when Meeran says and do exactly what he says. _

This time, Samson felt numbed by what he was seeing. As his rage stirred, it was creating a barrier between himself and his experience.

"You're so convinced you love him, but you left him anyway?" Meeran said haughty. This was what Samson had read on the sheet of paper explaining the job, but…

Before the thought could complete, Meeran dropped the bird shaped ornament to the floor. It broke with a piercing shriek, like the bird had been alive moments ago but slaughtered. "What kind of horrible excuse for a human being are you?"

"You crooks wouldn't have a clue, even if I explained it!" the woman shouted.

Before Samson felt empathy, he trampled on it.

_Stop it._ _She's has nothing to explain because she's useless. She broke a good man's dignity. I hate her. I will hurt her. The Maker will have mercy on me for being impatient. I follow orders. _

The words didn't feel so false anymore. They were getting stronger with repetition, like memorizing facts.

"Hey," Meeran referred to Samson, "Pick up that pretty golden ornament and carry it over."

With his mind numbed all that remained was an unforgiving system. His body reduced to a mechanical, unfeeling device, the brunet followed Meeran's finger to a rose patterned vase, avoiding the woman's eye. His surroundings were a haze. There was only one goal. Follow the superior. Think clearly. Act quickly.

Feeling almost like someone else was controlling his body, Samson did as he was asked and lifted it into his hands. The ornament was a lot lighter than what its appearance suggested. The ink was vibrant and its lines sharp, as eerie as the bizarre order surrounding them.

The woman breathed heavily, in apprehension perhaps, but Samson didn't listen. He turned back and paced with a quickened stride. There was only one goal. Turn this perfectly organized sanctuary into one of disorder.

The black-haired lady got out of the chair too and stepped back when Samson got too close, but he focused on the feeling of the ornament in his hand which was starting to slip from sweat.

"Punish her." Meeran instructed. The words were distant, as though spoken through a wall. But Samson heard and he would listen. It was either he would die or she would get injured. The priority was clear.

Pretending she was Meredith and Samson was holding a shield, he grabbed the woman's hair with one hand and smashed her nose with the ornament, fast and hard enough that it wouldn't slip.

With a gruesome sound, it wasn't clear whether the clang from the vase or the crunch from her bones was louder. It was almost funny. The ornament didn't break, but the woman's face had.

Her screams could have reached the high ceiling, a horrible pitch that cut through his skull, but one that had to be silenced.

_The Maker will have mercy on me for being cruel._

Trying to supress a snigger he wasn't expecting, Samson smashed the ornament again against her face, this time with both hands, possibly giving her a concussion, but he couldn't consider that now.

Finally, he took the decoration away, put the vase on the ground and covered her mouth with both hands. His insides responded with discomfort as he watched the woman's face swell purple, her nose pour with red, and blood pooled in her irises. It ran over his hands. His ears were attuned to Meeran.

_The Maker will have mercy on me for potentially blinding this poor woman._

Now the command for violence was over, the words reverberated with dishonesty.

"We can still sell this one." Samson said, referring to the ornament, wanting to think of anything else. It was strange to hear his voice. It did not match the mechanical chime in his body. He almost sounded _amused_.

"How could you?"

The woman's cry was audible behind his hands. She grabbed a silver lined handkerchief from her pocket and rested it on her chin to soak up the blood, although it did a pathetic job. Now her screaming had stopped, and she only moaned, Samson removed his hands. "How do you know my _husband_ isn't the one who deserves this?"

"We go where the money is, darling." Meeran said calmly. "It seems you do too. You see, we are not that different."

Samson felt horrible knowing this was a slither of the reason he was here as well.

"My eyes, the pain, my _eyes_…" Apparently too morally demoralized, the woman sat down on the ground and continued to sob, very loudly.

"Shut the hell up." Meeran mumbled, annoyed.

"How much is _he_ paying you to do this?" the stranger cried out.

Samson passed the vase to his superior.

"Not 300 sovereigns, stupid bitch." Meeran replied, taking it. "Are you going to comply yet, you rich slag? The sooner you do, there might be something left of your ugly face to save."

The woman merely cried. Samson didn't understand this lady. If the leader of the Red Iron had come for a visit he would hand over the cash and let that be the end of it.

_The Maker will not forgive me for being cruel, but He will understand. I am not a bad person, just a puppet. Meeran is the one who did this. _

Meeran crossed his arms, "Cut off her hair."

_I… follow orders… It is not wrong to follow orders… it makes me a good puppet. _

Samson grabbed her hair and snatched the blade from his pocket with great speed, while the words, 'Isn't this enough?' lingered somewhere in the back of his mind. He couldn't endorse them.

The woman screamed and waved her free hand around, trying to push Samson back, "Please! Not my hair!"

Samson grabbed a small portion and cut it off with a swift motion at the root. She now had a small bald spot, but it was easily covered by the rest.

"Cut it _all_ off." Meeran clarified.

He definitely knew how to touch people's weak spots. This was a woman who liked to keep up appearances, so it made crude sense to destroy that image.

His hands sweaty, Samson snatched as much of the stranger's hair as he could and tugged at it as a means to silence her. The woman writhed around to try and break free, still crying from the pain in her face. As the blade was about to slice through, she gave in.

"STOP!" she pleaded, a jumble of franticness followed, "Sell what you must. I'll give you…. Just don't. Stop. Don't do anymore. Please. Please, please, please… I really _don't_ have three hundred sovereigns. I get paid decently salary, very decently, yes, yes, but I spend it too quickly. I know it is sinful and unholy. Do not chasten me more."

She looked like a blistered bunny, her face a bloody, swollen mess. It was disgusting. Samson did all he could not to flinch but his stomach seemed to compensate for this and burned.

"We can tell." Meeran gave an awfully insincere smile, "Thank you for your cooperation," his voice rang of sarcasm. "If they don't sell for the three hundred I'll contact with your kids and tell them you think they're disposable and you consider yourself more important than them. Word will get out of what a selfish fucking bitch you are. If anyone asks, a fellow collector you had a feud with did this to you. Or lie like you're so proficient at. Is that fine with you, slag?"

He spoke with the confidence of someone who had done this a dozen times, and had always gotten away with it. Every victim who crossed him were reproached and petrified into silence. There was no doubt in his sinister voice, a black curse that struck in the hearts of many, maybe even the one who had volunteered for the job.

The woman nodded vigorously and stroked Samson's boots. He had never seen anything more helpless and terribly pathetic. Without her brazen air, she was reduced to the impoverished. Opulence and social standing meant little. She was nothing.

Now that they were ready to leave, guilt flooded into Samson's body as though he had merely pushed it back with his obsessive thoughts.

_This_ was the result of what he could do when he put his mind to it. Regardless of whether this woman was kind or a bitch, Samson wasn't sure she deserved it. A rush of despair surged through his veins and he felt shaken up, as if he was the one who had his face destroyed. But it had to stop. He needed to keep up his brave face until Meeran was gone.

"Grovel to someone who cares," Samson snapped, and he kicked her away. Focus. He'd concentrate his mind like the Chantry taught him.

_The Maker will not forgive me for being cruel, but He will understand. I am not a bad person, just a puppet. Meeran is the one who did this. _

The woman picked out statuettes and handed them to Meeran in a bag, trying not to sob because the tears stung.

"Congratulations. You're not useless." Meeran said, eyeing off Samson, "I'll sell this abysmal shite. Wait here, take care of our guest until I come back."

And so Samson was left alone with someone he'd brutalized. It wasn't like the Harrowings gone wrong. With those he could leave, write a report to Meredith and call it the end of his shift. This woman wasn't even dead!

Silence was illusionary, as he couldn't vanquish the echo of her screams, a memory that reoccurred unbidden again and again. It fragmented the imagery that lay before him.

_She deserved it. It was her fault she didn't realize what was coming to her and gave up the money immediately. _

But maybe he could redeem himself somehow. Now free to his own devices, Samson reverted back to his usual self.

"Sit down against the wall, madam," he instructed her, walking closer to her, "Let me fix it."

"Leave!" she shouted, pressing on her face with her hands.

"Hey," Samson lost his patience, "you're going to be worse off."

"_GO_!"

Ignoring her, the man scavenged around her house for something to substitute a bandage, but there was only a scarf and rags. He wet the rag with water and passed it to the woman. She used it to wipe her face, while Samson started wrapping the scarf around her head. All the while, the woman rallied insults at him.

"I pity whoever is in your life," she muttered, "you don't understand how hard life is for me."

"I don't." Samson agreed, not wanting to argue with her.

"You're a liar, too."

"Sorry."

It went on like this for a while.

* * *

Meeran and Samson didn't speak again until they reached the Lowtown hide out. It was dark outside now, so the murkiness of the room was almost comforting. It was like being in a cage, and for some reason Samson was okay with being confined right now. Perhaps it was because his body was bursting to express emotion in any way possible, like issuing steam from a kettle. Regardless of shouting at himself to avoid anything to do with that Hightown manor, images swirled in his mind like a wheel. Wanting the coin already, the only questions that the man could think of revolved around their previous discussion.

"You like other Rose floozies?" Samson asked, curiously.

"Barely worth the coin." Meeran said, "They are too nice, even the more outgoing ones."

"You don't like sweet?" Samson repeated absently, wondering why having compliant and obedient girls was bad.

Meeran screwed up his nose and muttered in an undertone, "When I fuck someone, _really_ get to, I don't just kiss ass and pretend I enjoy it. It's far more engaging if I've left an unhealable wound in their heads."

The man said it with a completely straight face, even a happy one as though recollecting a particularly festive First Day. That wasn't the part that struck Samson. He doubted the Faith Samson knew would be stupid enough to consider doing anything with this man, but maybe she had been a different person back then…. Maybe she wasn't the type of person she appeared to be.

"If Faith knew you… uh…." Samson fell silent, now curious of just how sadistic and screwed up the mercenary leader was. What was he even _trying_ to say?

"She knew this about me." Meeran said, as though reading Samson's mind, "Although I don't think she realized how much it would upset her. I deduce weaknesses in others very quickly. She hasn't spoken to me in years."

They had fucked once in the Rose. That was certain. Meeran was obviously smart enough not to push limits enough with the other workers, but if Faith had hated it enough to get Meeran banned why had she told Samson to work for him like it was a reputable option?

"What _is_ her weakness?" Samson questioned, as another unwelcome flash of Devereux's blood-filled eyes taunted him.

"Absolute betrayal," Meeran said without hesitation, "in every form. Breaking trust, destroying promises, ignoring boundaries…. There's nothing she hates more."

Samson could see how easy it would be for Meeran to break Faith by knowing this about her. All he would have to do is listen to what she found unacceptable and do those things anyway. Wasn't mercy saved for all people – especially the ones you wanted to bed?

Samson didn't want to think about mercy.

"By the way, I know your weakness too." Meeran added.

"What's that?"

"Abandonment," Meeran said. Even said with nonchalance, the word chilled Samson to the bone and rang with such truth it was terrifying. For a split second, he felt as though he had been left in Devereux house, forever to be insulted and unnerved by the neatness. How the heck had the Red Iron leader figured this out, and why did it make Samson feel like throwing up?

"So don't pull any shit with me or I will personally ensure you feel and are completely alone."

Fuck.

Meeran was right. Samson missed the Circle for his friends because he didn't want to be alone. Maybe he had gone to the Gallows as a boy, and tried to make friends with those in the Chantry because he didn't want to be with his ghost of a mother. Perhaps, he had denied Zoe's help because he feared her rejection. What would the sadistic jerk do if Samson made a wrong move? Kill his friends? Kidnap them?

He didn't want to know, and that impression was so overpowering he decided messing with Meeran earlier probably hadn't been worth it, even if it was fun, "If that's how it is, break my teeth."

"What?" Meeran snapped, "What did you lie about?"

It was better to come clean this time around.

"I met Faith at the Rose," Samson explained, "although I think she _did_ find me interesting."

He said the last part to make his boss jealous more than anything, but it was worth getting some of his power back.

"You dirty twit." Meeran cracked his knuckles, "That's the truth?"

"It is," Samson said, "I haven't lied about anything else."

"You better not lie again." he threatened.

For a moment, the ex-Templar thought Meeran would let him go without a scratch, but no. The Red Iron leader waited until Samson was about to step outside. With a crack that shook his vision, Samson groaned. Agony turned to numbness and stillness was degraded to stumbling. He brought a hand to his face when he regained balance. Meeran was smirking.

The punch had met his jaw, but the violence was over. No one else would get hurt.

There were no complaints, only a forced smile. Suffer and endure. Even when blood pooled the inside of his mouth, once the taste of metal made him woozy and he realized one of his teeth was missing.

It was on the floor, pathetic and almost invisible in the dark, lonely, but not forgotten. Careful to not show weakness, he put the tooth back and clenched his jaw to stump the bleeding. When he glanced back at Meeran, the man placed coin in his hands. From a glance, it was close to twenty sovereigns and it was more than he had been expecting.

"I get a portion of everything you earn so I can find the jobs. I took a little more because I had to take over, but if you remember what you learned today, I'll find you jobs Faith did. Get lost, but come to the Hanged Man tomorrow in the very back room and they'll be more work for you."

For a second all the turmoil of the night was forgotten. Faith had _worked_ for the Red Iron too. If the rules were correct, her paperwork was in that same draw. Why had she done that? When?

Samson could still smile despite a large bruise.

"Thanks."

* * *

It was - however frustratingly - too dark to buy anything from the markets, so he bought a drink at the Hanged Man and sat there doing nothing. While sipping away and taking care that his lose tooth didn't drop into the glass, Samson pondered on the kind of jobs Faith used to do with the Red Iron and whether her first shift ended up potentially blinding someone.

He had no idea, though he wasn't sure how to even begin having a conversation like that.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thanks to Flaminea for being a beta for this chapter. It was needed. I was so nervous about it. Please R&amp;R!


	15. Otium - Rest

The sounds of a flickering fire and sizzling oil greeted Samson upon pushing the door open. The air had an overtone of steam and smoke. It bore little resemblance to the tawdry dwelling he'd been pulled into the previous night, as the merry flame from the hearth basked its contents in colour.

Faith was cross legged in front of the fire, prodding the insides of a clay dish with a long iron ladle, with her walking stick nearby. Judging by the scent of cooked fish, his meagre catch was being put to good use. Why was she cooking _now_? Had she stayed out late again?

"Hello."

He thought he mumbled it, but Faith glanced over.

"Dank you 'or de…." Still slurring words together, she prodded to the fire.

Samson attuned his ears to the verbal jumble as he paced over. She must be thanking him for the food. "You're welcome."

Faith nodded with her eyes.

"You made it back."

"I did."

She peered at Samson peculiarly, and he thought he understood. The statement implied more than, 'welcome'. If Samson had made a wrong move with Meeran, he could very well have died and not walked through the door at all. Did that mean, she wasn't only grateful he was within her house, but that he was _alive_?

His heart warmed at the idea. It was reassuring that she acknowledged this risk, even if she didn't mention Meeran.

Alerted to her withdrawn disposition from this morning, and not wanting to make it worse, Samson lifted a chair from the miniscule table and brought it to her. Half a smile reached her, though her eyes were red… from tears?

Wordlessly, Faith handed Samson the ladle, leaned against the chair and lifted herself with atypical effort. In the process of finding her footing, she kicked the walking stick and the chair scraped a few inches away from its original location.

Not sure what else to do, Samson prodded the grilling fish and vegetables.

"You doing alright?" he asked.

Faith nodded, but groaned and stretched out her legs, "It was a busy day. My body betrayed me. Cruel…"

With the limp side of her face was more animated, her speech was easier to understand. She gestured to his face.

"Did Meeran give you that?"

In the endeavour to be helpful, Samson had almost forgotten how swollen and tender his bruise felt.

"Yes," he said, and not wanting to talk about it added, "I got coin, but I'll have to get up early tomorrow to make use of it."

This was his chance to relax, and any mention of Meeran would ruin that. Samson had to admit he was fine delaying _that_ topic of conversation.

No additional thank you for his work arrived or recommendations on how to spend his coin. Perhaps she already guessed. Faith gave the smallest laugh, one of mild discomfort, but perhaps pride glimmered in her eyes. Her day had been rotten because of her disability; perhaps they had something in common. Would she talk about it, or did she feel the same as he did?

"The stroke looks like it pricked your strength," he pointed out.

"I didn't bother gutting the fish," she said, as lazily as the short cut she'd confessed to.

Right, she wasn't answering. Silence reminded him of the ache, so Samson stepped over to the sink, wet a rag and placed it against his face to lessen it. Still, the worry of this morning returned. "Please tell me you didn't work."

"You sound like Lusine," Faith said, "_Go home, mistress. Last I need is your pretty self in worse trouble._ We used to get into arguments about it." she started to unlace her heels. "This one hit me harder than usual, but I can retrain it in another day or so. At least I can show expressions again."

She put on her most charming smile, the one saved for work, and Samson had to agree she could feign normalcy when the effort was put in. It seemed home was not the place where she would bother.

Her optimism and nonchalance aside, all Samson could think was - _Bloody Andraste's tits, did that mean she went to work?_

"How'd you win the argument?"

"The compromise took a long time. I used to go home as requested, but I had debts to pay on this house back then." The prostitute pressed her lips together. "I needed as much work as I could. Reluctantly she allowed me one hour, then two. I worked today for three hours and no more. It's been this way since the last stroke. Clients get moved and my price gets temporarily lowered. I visit the healer in the mornings."

Samson wondered how many strokes a person needed in order to get this far in pushing boundaries. Then he realized he didn't want to know.

"Somehow that makes it busier?"

Faith groaned and let one of her heels fall angrily on its side, "The refugees have made the Rose a horror."

"The Guard too," Samson recalled.

"We've had all these new applicants so Lusine was doing job interviews," Faith explained, "and then the waitresses were left to take money, but then _they_ all got too busy, and customers…." Her growl explained more than any words could.

"Who organizes then?"

"I tried to, but then I ended up being late," Faith said, "_Everybody_ was running late. Then the demons blame us. No brains. Lusine is running job interviews so their reasons to get pissed off can lessen. Castration would have been a suitable punishment."

Samson had the impression that if Faith was given the ok, she would gladly execute this punishment on all the angry customers.

"Were your customers blockheads?" he questioned.

"Most of them just put their names down for a day when I'm better," Faith replied, "I earned next to nothing though. Cheap service only – servants work!"

Samson laughed. 'Cheap service' included meaningful conversations, hugs, teasing and maybe a few kisses. It was reserved for those too intimidated by expensive services, the hung over, socially isolated or depressed. "That's meant to be easier, right?"

"_That's_ why I hate it," Faith grumbled, "It makes me feel _sicker_ because the lyrium keeps singing to me. I got a few cheap stakes that only see me when I'm ill, but a lady and a young man were decent."

She sighed.

Withdrawal and the singing… at least those symptoms had not returned yet. "You did well."

He fondly recalled his first experience in the Rose with Bailey, his previous roommate. They had promised themselves to start the step above the cheap service to prove themselves they weren't intimidated by undressing in front of women. Samson found himself still nervous anyway but it hadn't taken away from the experience.

Faith pulled off her other heel and let her body sprawl out on the chair, making her almost fall out of it, "Urgh, dinner."

She limped to the table with her walking stick positioned an inch off the ground, taking time to take each step on her bad side with utmost precision. By the time she got there Samson had done three trips and retrieved all they needed to eat.

The carp, potatoes, artichokes and gourd glistened in lard, and were coated in what appeared to be a sauce and ground almonds. Faith put some on their plates with the ladle.

"I almost forgot," she said, as she tried to gut and debone her fish, "With… _everything_ I'll likely be too busy to pick up my order of lyrium on time, but you shouldn't go on your own…"

"Yes, ma'am," Samson said, disgruntled it seemed he was being assigned this without a choice.

Faith ignored the comment. "I asked one of my suppliers to meet me at an earlier date so I can introduce you and show you how it works."

It sounded like she entrusted him this important task, but trust and importance seemed to collide and die in her mind. Such a contradiction shouldn't be able to exist or survive.

"I'm not too irresponsible?"

Faith's look implied no.

"That's polite of you," Samson said.

They ate.

"I doubt you'll approve on where I source it from." Faith said.

"The Chantry?"

"The Carta."

"Uh huh."

Truth be told, Samson wasn't exactly surprised this was the case, but he found himself concerned for Faith's safety more than his own. The Carta were vicious.

"Isn't that a bad idea?" he muttered, a slither of his Templar morals returning.

"No," Faith replied unflinchingly, "The Chantry's lyrium is more refined, expensive, and the transportation fees a disgrace." She pushed fish bones to the side of her plate. "The Carta have attacked me when I've not been there on time to pick up the lyrium or make payment… I don't want you getting on their bad side – _very_ easy to do if you don't know them."

"Are you inferring they're your associates?"

"_Suppliers_," the woman corrected, "but that is my condition. You can stay here if you work for Meeran and help me with lyrium. Also…" a slight elation filled her eyes, "if you could cook for me sometimes… I might overlook how much energy I have to spend keeping an eye on you."

By her tone it was a compliment, perhaps some unreachable dream of having one less ritual in her day.

"You _want_ me to cook for you?" Samson repeated incredulously. He couldn't remember ever cooking anything besides basics from Templar training. There was never any reason to. "Prepare to bid farewell to your tastebuds."

Her lip curled. "It is only a suggestion."

Samson hesitated. Suddenly the discussion with Zoe felt like it happened a month ago. This arrangement with Faith seemed a hopeful scenario. He might not be able to get off lyrium entirely but at least he could have smaller amounts of it. Maybe here it would be manageable.

Only it wasn't.

Before Samson could resist he blurted out, "Why the Red Iron?"

Faith peered at him, bewildered. "Why not?"

"Meeran is a sadistic wank."

He felt lighter verbalizing it, though the scraping of cutlery and a mumble pulled the silence.

"You disagree?" Samson said unevenly.

"No, I am too used to…" Faith nearly dropped her fork. "I'm not proud of what I have done to survive."

"Then why are you making _me_ do it?"

Faith chewed on the vegetable and swallowed, "Did Meeran scare you?"

Answering a question with another question seemed to be the method of Faith's madness. Ok, maybe he was intimidated, but that wasn't what bothered him. The only reason Samson didn't explode was reminding himself that she was doing all she could.

"I don't trust him."

"Neither do I, but he gave you a job – or are you telling me he didn't?"

"That's not it." Samson glowered at her.

The two ate for a few moments in an attempt to calm themselves. "I've spent my life doing what is right, working towards… what I _thought_ benefits Thedas. No, I don't think the Circle has it right, but I don't want to be changed into those I despise."

Faith clutched her forehead with one hand. "When I'm low on coin, I sometimes do the Carta's work," she explained, "Does that make me a bad person?"

That was a difficult question. Faith had good intentions at heart. At least, it seemed that way. He _thought_ so, or hoped.

It wasn't as simple as that. The Chant dictated that man was wicked for defiling the Golden City, but that was more Tevinter's writings. Andraste and her followers praised the Maker and his children, and these were the interpretations most preferred by Grand Cleric Elthina. His teachings, in any case, had been knee deep in academia. He considered what fit here, about what made a person good or bad. Intentions and behaviour had something to do with it; about what was displayed to the outside. What if _Andraste_ had stomped on the Golden City, but still taught the greatness of the Maker?

He'd known passing notes between Phillipa and Maddox was risky. His intentions were shrouded in self-interest at first, but he came to believe it was making his friends happy. Cullen didn't agree. Meredith didn't either, but all their choices were done in the name of what was 'right'. It was the _methods_ he didn't like… but did it really matter if there was no other way, if every other option was nullified, just like how Samson had slept on Faith's doorstep? It was difficult to say if these factors even mattered in a struggle for survival at its most basic level, where possessions and resources were scarce. If his morals really mattered, he'd had never approached Meeran. He had a will to live still, and he wanted to fight, though he still wanted to strive for something greater, even if he was clueless as to what this meant right now.

Faith _tried_ to be a good person. Maybe sometimes she was a bad person to stay alive. He had no fucking idea if that was justifiable. Wanting to stay on her good side, he attempted to defend her.

"Kirkwall is full of selfishness," Samson said finally, "Even if people hide behind good intentions; the governance the good people live by is inherently selfish. Without meaning to, we're all out to get each other. You might as well get ahead."

Some part of his mind was yelling at him for encouraging Faith's behaviour, but Samson ignored it, too tired, too desperate for answers.

Faith was at a loss for words. The harshness in her features lessened, though she maintained the evenness on both sides of her face. There was something close to admiration in her eyes.

"You're striking…"

_That_ wasn't the answer he expected. Then again, he was never sure what to expect with her.

To his bewilderment, some of his hair was tucked behind his ear with her dysfunctional hand. He jumped.

"Do you really think so?"

"It's not a matter of opinion," Samson decided, "It's just the way Kirkwall works. I may not know what the better way forward is yet, but it's not what it currently is. There's something wrong with… the Circle, for one."

Why… had he agreed? He'd been so offhanded… it was like he _wanted_ her to like him.

_Of course you do,_ he coaxed himself as Faith smiled broadly, _you don't want her yelling at you and kicking you out._

_And…_ he found himself smiling back as she put her hands in her lap,_ how much nicer would her smile look in something modest? _

He stopped himself there, irked at he cared about something so trivial.

"What did…"

Samson left the sentence unfinished. He wanted to ask Faith about Meeran, but he had worn himself out too much already and didn't want to destroy the woman's good mood by asking the wrong question.

"Is your tongue in a knot?" Faith's grin widened. "This is when others run."

The memory of the keys came back to him.

"Is that what happened to the mage?"

Faith stared back, perhaps debating whether to answer or not, but she did, quietly. "I wish I knew. He had too many enemies or friends who were rivals." She shrugged, "I still wish I knew what happened to him. He introduced me to the Carta so I worry."

To retrain movement, Faith deliberately ate with the side that had gone limp. Samson didn't think it was possible to take such a long time to eat food. He finished his fish when Faith had gotten through half. Surprisingly, she continued:

"Listen. It isn't…. I forgot how grim some of Meeran's work was – but … will you work for him for now?" Faith requested tentatively, "I…." she took a deep breath, "I'm sorry Meeran hurt you. Refuse the harsher contracts if or when you find a niche. I won't reprimand you."

How had she managed to do Meeran's work and still be sane… actually, she wasn't very sane.

_That's a stupid question,_ Samson realized, happy his ability to think wasn't completely vanquished.

He was left with the same reasoning that got him to walk to Meeran in the first place, that perhaps through doing this, a better opportunity might come later. Simple, try everything once or twice, and then he could narrow his choices. "I don't like it but I will work there for now."

"For me?" Faith clarified.

"For coin," Samson corrected.

"So you can stay."

"Get your head out your arse."

Faith made a peculiar expression Samson couldn't place a name to and pointed to where the bucket was. "Did you buy that fishing rod?"

"Meeran gave it to me." There was no point hiding the truth. "He wanted me to tell you it was a 'present for your new friend'."

Faith's eyes drifted and her upper lip hardened. "I hate that bastard."

While no response came, she abandoned her cutlery and leaned forward on her elbows, suddenly looking distressed. "By Guylain's corpse, I want lyrium right now… but I _know_ I can't. I shouldn't."

Samson found his words, "How can I help?"

"I'd love to answer." Faith groaned. She rested her head on her palm. "I'm low on my stores so I don't want to waste any more. I also want to spare some for you when you need it, and it's so much effort to go to the cabinet how I am." Surprisingly, she pushed her walking stick away on the floor with her shoes. "But I don't want to use my usual methods."

Samson wondered what these were. "What are they?"

"My apostate friend, 'Ewan'…. " Faith started moving her food around on her plate compulsively. "He was immensely helpful, but very few can do what he did."

"Did he use spells?"

"Yes." Faith affirmed. She sat a bit straighter and her gaze drilled to his bones. "He used to bind me from head to toe and suspend me from the ceiling."

Samson had no idea what to make of this information. That didn't sound 'helpful' at all, more like torture. "Wasn't that uncomfortable?"

Faith's eyes glittered. "No. Not in the way where it should end. And…" she mentioned with a small smile, "It definitely stopped me from going to my stores… or his."

The former Templar was torn between asking more about this strange ritual and what her connection with the mage really was.

The one that bothered him presented first. "Were the keys his?"

"Yes," Faith said, "He didn't live here but he alternated between his place and mine."

Samson felt calmer knowing that at least the arrangement had not been a consistent one, but he didn't know why he cared. Instead, he pondered more on the idea of a younger Faith dangling from the ceiling by magical binds. There was a lot he couldn't picture.

"Who came up with the idea?" he settled on.

"He did," Faith said, "but I gave him permission. He was very thoughtful."

Again, Samson had no idea how 'uncomfortable' and 'kindness' melded together.

"Did he leave you there and wait for the craving to go away?"

Faith smirked, "Somewhat."

Why was she smiling?

The woman stopped playing with the food and finished another mouthful. "There was a specific structure to it. I told him what was acceptable and not on the ground and he made the choices within those limits once I was in the air."

"Like what?" Samson questioned. He was only politely curious.

Faith however appeared delighted he was asking.

"You're so interested."

"It's 'cause I don't get it," Samson said, haughtily.

"You _want_ to understand." Faith answered, leaning noticeably forward. "That still means you're absorbed in the details."

Maybe she had a point. A repulsed or apathetic person wouldn't ask for further information, but still…

"I only want to help you," he said, and he glanced at the ceiling. The run down appearance of it aside, it looked literally impossible to suspend a person from it without magic. "And I don't think I can do what he did."

"I know." Faith said, like she didn't care. After a pause she added, "What would you be willing to do to help me?"

Samson wasn't sure what the look in her eyes was, as she had moved sideways on her chair so the weak side was more visible. The response was obvious, at least to him. "Considering what deranged rubbish I do to help myself sometimes it leaves a lot up to your imagination."

Faith smiled on both sides of her face, but it twitched and vanished. "You shouldn't have said that."

Each word was pronounced flawlessly.

Hoping to draw the truth of her intentions out, Samson decided to tease her. "I'm _so sorry_, Faith. The words are so harsh and yet so true I don't think even a sincere, thought out apology could take them away."

Faith ate a bit more food. "An apology is not necessary. After all, the only one regretting your offer will be you."

This was reassuring as the sorry wasn't truthful, but Samson was perplexed by that assumption. "You're convinced you know me."

"I highly doubt you appreciated pleasing me the other night." she pointed out, with a shrewd expression.

Samson grinned. That night _had_ been a challenge. "I was unwell. Enjoying wasn't part of the agreement, neither could I had done anyway. Although…" he added it as an afterthought, "I like the sound of your voice and…"

He went silent. The intended end to that sentence was: 'and I like the scent of you close to me" but he didn't know if that was true because of lyrium or because of her, and he didn't know how to tell the difference.

Now it was Faith's turn to get confused. Her gaze didn't leave him, but her thoughts obviously did.

"In three months…" Faith ventured, "…is the anniversary of when I found out my parents were dead."

Samson wasn't sure what to say, so he kept watching her move her cutlery at amazing slowness. This was an abrupt and rather serious turn of conversation topic.

"Are your parents still alive?"

"Physically," Samson said, "but in no other capacity." He hesitated, "If you are sad about the anniversary I'm guessing yours were… uh… better than mine?"

"I don't remember them, but my Grandpop showed me their wedding portraits. He died a while ago too, but I can grieve for him another day." She sighed. "I feel like I let them down. I never had a chance to see them when I grew up."

"What happened?" Samson asked, genuinely curious. She was talking of memories before the Gallows, and this was one of the first topics raised in training with fellow brothers and sisters. It gave an indication of what had inspired them to join the Order, or merely figure out basic points of common interest.

There was a long pause where Faith chewed some fish and swallowed.

"They lived in Solle – a poor, Antivan city. When a food shortage struck during the civil war, they asked my Grandpop to take care of me. He was so depressed over losing Grandma that he was very happy to sail to Kirkwall with me. I don't think he wanted another family member dying before they needed to. Grandpop only told me they died when I wrote to him from the Circle during training at 13. They could have died years before. He didn't tell me when it happened."

_Now my parent's story sounds rubbish. _

"Sorry," Samson mumbled. If Faith's parents had been decent, and it sounded like they had been, it would be nice if their caregivers could trade fates. His parents could die, and Faith's could live. He wouldn't lose anything, but the woman opposite would gain a real family… and maybe a smile.

"I usually bake with lyrium, depending on what I have," Faith said suddenly, "Does your deeply disturbed heart wish to help?"

That's what this was about. Lyrium. Well… he guessed the woman had not organized a memorial or something. What was wrong with helping?

"I can buy ingredients."

His childhood was so vague he didn't think he'd ever seen his parents bake. He strained his head to determine how this was possible, when he decided looking at Faith had far more benefits, for it did not require any thinking.

Faith seemed apathetic, but nodded. He watched the careful, steady motion of her fork, sometimes slipping between her fingers, how her expression sometimes detached from exhaustion and turned curious. How did she find Templar training or taking her first dose of lyrium?

He promptly glanced at the table when she spotted him looking at her and seemed too tired to talk more.

* * *

Faith placed her knife and fork together.

"Do you like keeping me company?" she inquired.

_Does that mean something else other than sitting here? _

He couldn't figure out if he wanted it to mean something more or not. Right now he felt like her _accessory_. All night she'd asked him to do things for her, with little repayment.

"When you're not… intolerable," Samson half stuttered, avoiding a harsher adjective.

Faith didn't seem offended. The brilliant blue of her eyes met his, no callousness in them, but an earnest fortitude.

"Can you?"

_Yes,_ Samson thought of saying, but he still wasn't sure what she meant. It seemed she didn't know either for the words was not as certain as usual.

In an instance of self-doubt, her powdered eyelids half closed.

"I don't think it's the variety of company you'd appreciate."

Samson picked up Faith's plate and put it in the now empty baking dish. The only company he didn't like was when she was being insensitive.

"Try me."

There was no sarcasm or adversity. He honestly wanted to know.

Faith hastily avoided his stare, as though he'd witnessed her blackest sins. A flicker of the past rushed by, perhaps someone younger. She gripped the edge of the table and slowly rose to her feet.

* * *

They cleaned their teeth facing away from each other, with no discussion. As Samson cleaned the rag used for the task, he recollected his mother and father's voices, loudly debating whose turn it was to put Raleigh to bed. Feeling taken aback and uncomfortable, he got changed in the bathroom where the chamber pot was.

When he slipped under the bed covers with the woman already in her night dress she turned away from him.

"Hello," Samson said, not knowing how he could sound anymore boring, but also at a loss of how he could have been interesting…. Or even why he cared about this whatsoever. There was nothing else that seemed right, not then.

"Good evening," Faith replied.

It was like they were redoing their first night together over again, trying to make it easier or perhaps even simple. They would throw away the defences and attempt to create transparency.

Little did Samson realize the days and nights spent under her roof would never be _simple_.

Slowly, she reached back with her left arm and her fingers stretched to cross the distance between them. Samson laid his palm on her wrist, letting her know he was there. Maybe she was searching for his hand.

He didn't know how to feel, or even if he felt anything, when she latched on and directed his hand around to rest on her belly. He wasn't sure what was appropriate when she wriggled against him, back meeting his chest, her backside not quite meeting his hips.

"This," she murmured, "is not what you want."

Was it a question or a statement? What did he want? While Samson had every intention to be specific in his answer, he was surprised to find he was emotionally ambivalent. She had barely mentioned Meeran, and avoided questions still, despite efforts. But this… what was this?

Whatever it was, 'not wanting' was not part of the answer.

"I don't mind."

Slightly uncomfortable, he twitched his other hand, his right one, cramped awkwardly against the bed. "My other arm is meant to stay here?"

Faith gently filled the gaps between his fingers with hers, "Don't you know?"

"No?"

It was an honest response. He hadn't done anything like this with a woman, not the girls at the Rose or with Zoe. It was unfamiliar territory.

Faith threaded her fingers in his, not quite touching or trying to influence them, "Then keep it how it is."

"Okay."

Silence passed where he felt her ribs expand against his chest and heard her exhalations through her nose. It would be audible to only someone so close.

Why had Faith wanted to do this? Was she cold? What kind of _company_ did this indicate?

Samson bit the inside of his mouth, getting caught in his thoughts again. It would feel more comfortable… closer, but he couldn't move. Not knowing if it was right to, he borrowed the Antivan's explanation from the previous night, "I feel threatened… a bit."

A pause.

"I don't."

_Good for you_, Samson thought. "Can I move?"

"I won't hit you," Faith promised.

"If you do," he quickly tried to think of a condition, "I'm taking my hand back."

"Fair."

With the hand resting on her tummy, he pressed Faith closer to him, buried his nose in the Rose worker's hair and breathed it in like there was nothing hindering the notion. Lyrium gently coaxed him, beguiled him to forget that he was leaving all his friends at the Circle behind by relishing Faith's approval in his slowly changing ideology.

In an unreachable part of his mind, there was acceptance that he had everything. He had no withdrawal symptoms, felt normal, had a decent meal, spent time with another human being, felt like he could cope with whatever life bashed him with and was about to fall into a peaceful sleep.

This was all he ever needed to have.

"Are you breathing?" she murmured.

"Better."

It sounded like she smiled, if it was possible to hear such a thing.

There were still many questions Samson had about Faith and the first one he recalled was the pair of keys he now possessed, the ones who used to belong to a mage who levitated Faith in the air. Calmness inspired him to ask,

"Did you feel sentimental for the mage… who used to visit you before? Ewan?"

Samson's consciousness swam with images of dreams in the making. Vaguely, Faith's wary voice became a jumble of words, a reverie of its own.

"Whyssat?" he mumbled.

"If I did feel sentimental, they might never know," She said very quietly, "I'd never tell them directly. Rebecca was the last I told."

Her Tranquil.

"…If that makes you happy." Samson mumbled.

He wasn't sure how Faith reacted, but the room and his senses dulled.

"He may have left the keys, but he didn't only leave me. Ewan's house was abandoned. He never came back."

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thanks again to my beta Flaminea for her help! Also, I changed the name of Faith's tranquil lover to "Rebecca" as it was too similar to our main character before, and it was annoying me.


	16. Mortem - Death

Faith left to visit the healer at the same time she had the previous morning. Samson didn't have a choice about getting up any later, as Faith gave him a brisk prod on his leg with her walking stick.

The now empty lyrium vial clattered as she rinsed it in the sink. Then, she walked carefully towards the door, suspending the stick in her palms like a balancing rod. Too fascinated to look away, Samson's fingers reached for the handle of the bedside draw. She looked placid. The sight was calming, almost. Aimless, the fingertips brushed the wood with a –_tap-_. He pulled only to find that failure struck him, again.

In that moment, it was not she who failed and could make no progress, but Samson.

_Tap. _

Still, unmoving, he did not speak - like the draw, equally rejecting of his efforts.

Not opening.

How could he dip into his habit _again_?

Infuriated, he swung at the draw, vindictively.

_Bang._

He lay inert, annoyed, while Faith passed him a bemused smile. Self-consciousness and patterns of behaviour were such a vice. Troubled, the former Templar nursed his palm. It hurt. Maybe one day he, like her, would not seek for vials in the draw.

"Ingredients," Faith informed, stamping her hand on the table louder than he had the furniture.

_Tap._

Her voice was nearly normal.

"A lady called Madina Holguin in Lowtown knew my Grandpop well. She includes more than what I ask, so don't go anywhere else. Details are on here too. "

Samson didn't know what to think about baking with lyrium, whether he desired to taste it, or reject it. If he helped prepare the treat, not trying some may be unappreciated.

At least it would be diluted.

"Got it."

* * *

_Wait. _Samson thought, as the door closed, and again, as he walked to the Hanged Man_, Faith had said the commemoration of her parents death was three months away. Isn't it a bit early to be thinking about preparations?_

Pleased that he had enough capacity to question, and enough strength to walk without concern, he gave thanks to the Maker that the withdrawal shakes or headaches hadn't caught up with him yet.

* * *

"Why don't you have armor yet?" Meeran demanded, apparently not happy to see him.

"I bought some. I left it with the merchant temporarily," Samson said, stiffly, seated in his chair. This back room of the Hanged Man was immensely noisy, with dart boards and card games being played at the smaller tables.

"Is Faith waiting for you to die?"

Samson didn't know how to answer. Faith had been extremely busy yesterday. They hadn't mentioned armor. Screw it, he should have asked Faith where to find the best ones, but there had been too much on his mind this morning–like how idiotic he was to try look in the draw! The ingredients he was asked to purchase would take up his coin, so the quality of the purchase was sup par. Was he even _allowed_ to ask her for money?

"Faith obviously doesn't think of you highly enough to lend you coin," the mercenary said, "I'm taking an extra 5% of your earnings until you come completely prepared."

The logic made sense, but Samson didn't like it. Neither was he fool enough to argue. He spoke through his teeth, "You said you'd give me work?"

Meeran smiled, retrieved two slips of parchment from in his pocket and slid them across the table.

Samson peered down at them.

_Client: Josrian Leras_

_Descriptors: elf, age 19-24, two earrings and a scar on his right arm_

_Job: Dwarven regicide, 230ml (ask Punchline – outskirts of the Bone Pit for it)._

_Price: 5 gold_

"What does an elf want with poison?" Samson wondered.

"Who gives a shit…" Meeran waved his hand, as though wishing the objection away. "It's not my job to find out. Anyway, you want to help? Bring the drinks to me. I'll be hanging around."

"I'll do it," Samson said, figuring transporting goods couldn't be as horrific as yesterday.

He looked at the next paper.

_Client: Will answer to Lydia_

_Descriptors: eyes are different colors, 40-50s, fat, grey eyebrows_

_Job: Wants bloke on her street, Patrick M. used up, for keeping his third daughter under the house most of her life – 11 years old. South West Docks, house with a lopsided birch tree and weeds out the front (Lazy git.)_

_Price: 90 gold _

Samson wasn't sure exactly what the job actually entailed. It must be some kind of slang.

"What am I doing?"

Meeran quickly ran a finger across his throat.

Murder. Kill. That's what it meant.

The former Templar sighed. He had killed charges before, but that had, in honesty, only happened twice. He had ended someone in self-defence once with the City Guard. At least to him the reasoning seemed justified at the time. This didn't.

"Is there anything else?"

"No, Raleigh. I told you I'd have work for you, not what it would be," Meeran said with a smile, "Want it or not?"

If this was a lie, there was nothing Samson could say to get out of it. He only had to play along. Like Faith said, he had to test his boundaries with the killing rubbish. That's all. Once he got on Meeran's good side he could stop. Recollecting what Meeran described yesterday about matching Samson's skills with Faith's, a worry entered his head.

_Did Faith regularly kill while working for this bastard?_ _Was she good at it?_

It disturbed him, yet the why evaded him. If Faith was an utter psychopath and could devoid herself of humanity, all it meant was that she would get more work than he did.

The job wasn't just killing – it looked like it was revenge for abuse. Did that mean something good could result from it? Maybe the client was a decent lady, even if the one he had to slice apart wasn't, and she could save the girl. The paper didn't specify.

"How come the daughter has never been found?" Samson hushed, wondering why the Guard had not been approached instead.

"I suspect he's a sly bastard," Meeran said, "Feeling nothing is what makes some of the most egotistical eggheads."

Samson was tempted to point out the comparison to his boss, but this wouldn't go well. At the back of his mind, he thought prison was a worse punishment than death and stuffed the parchment in his satchel. He'd _find a way_ to ensure the girl's freedom. He'd do the bloody job.

"I'll be finished up by tonight."

"Also, I don't trust you after your lying yesterday, so before you bugger off to the seas…" Meeran poured himself some wine. "My trust comes at a high price. Most folk can't afford it, so they don't get work."  
"Alright."

"Faith is the only reason I didn't tell you to shove off the moment I met you," Meeran explained, "She was more brilliant than a sunrise over Hightown pavement. No bullshit, she just followed orders and rarely made mistakes. You've already made two mistakes."

The pounding of Samson's heart seemed located in his ears. Somewhere vulnerable, he feared he would be punched in the face again.

"For arguments sake, let's say you're on my 'to be proven useful' list." Meeran linked his fingers together on the table. "There are plenty of capable workers coming through among these refugees. And those on the 'to be proven useful' list are very disposable."

Regretfully, Samson wished the timing of being dismissed from the Gallows hadn't been terrible.

"What are you getting at?" he asked, begrudgingly. If he was disposable, he should have been let go already. Somehow Faith fit into this.

Meeran rubbed his forehead and looked at one of the dart boards.

"Has that whore tried to get her leg over without coin?"

For a moment, Samson had to think about this. He'd played with her body to lower the price of lyrium, but in the end she hadn't taken his money. Did this count?

"No."

"What was that look?" Meeran demanded. He pushed the wine forward. "You better unclog the phlegm from your throat, Raleigh."

Samson pushed it back. As someone banned from the Rose, maybe the Red Iron leader wanted to convince her to give those privileges back. But he didn't seem angry about that, or Faith… it just seemed… like he liked having her around… to fuck with her head? Perhaps her fighting against Meeran made the chase challenging.

Faith wouldn't fall for that kind of rubbish.

"I hardly get it, but I can't give Faith to you like she's a doll," Samson argued, "You knew her before? You should know what she's like."

"I do," Meeran noted smoothly. He grinned. "Tell me what the look was for."

Not wanting more conflict than necessary, the former Templar explained, trying to keep the story as vague as possible. Bothered that he didn't know where the conversation was going, he took a small sip of the wine.

"Faith's methods for doting on her targets must have evolved since I last met her," Meeran murmured, "When she was working for me she was around your age. There were not as many marks on her body; her voice was not as wrecked by that poison she takes. Generally she was far more attractive, and a _cunning_ tease." The Red Iron leader's lips curled slightly. "Faith hasn't spoken to me in a very long time. I thought keeping away would rekindle her trust, but it hasn't. She trusts you. She doesn't trust easily. You are a rare specimen."

Samson wanted to swear at Meeran for inadvertently calling her ugly, but retaliation was probably what Meeran wanted, and Samson had shown too much weakness already.

_Calm down,_ he told himself, _the prick's just trying to mess with you._

No matter what Faith's motivations were, the thought of her and Meeran doing anything together was sickening.

The former Templar started picking the grime from under his fingernails out of nervousness, "She doesn't."

"What?"

"She doesn't _trust me_," Samson growled. He realized he felt annoyed about this. Did he want her to trust him? All that mattered was he had a house to stay in, a job, and lyrium…. "I don't care about what she was like back then, still doesn't change I'm not the man to help you."

"I only want to speak to her," Meeran said, "to make amends."

Samson's clenched his hands into fists. Yeah, talk and then what? Make amends and then what? Multiple foul scenarios crossed his mind. He imagined Faith regularly talking about Meeran, and then asking Samson to run errands because she was too lazy, or...

In each scenario, the outcome was atrocious.

"Shove that Templar hostility bullshit up your ass where it belongs, Raleigh. I wasn't the one who started this." Meeran calmly positioned his fingers over the top of each other.

Was Faith the type to approach others when she wanted something? If so, Samson was nothing. That was rubbish. He was way better a person than Meeran. And wasn't Faith nicer in her past? None of it made sense.

_Maker, don't bother asking,_ Samson told himself, _He'll lie or blow nothing out of proportion. _

Too angry to leave the details ambiguous, he tested the waters.

"Are you sure about that?"

"While she was still working with me – what, how long ago - four or something years, _she_ invited me to drinks, said she was having a problem with suppliers," Meeran explained, "I was expecting business, but Faith - _she_ wanted company for no coin. I was only an impeccable host."

Oh, he could imagine it all, the forthright approach in Faith's speech and the sounds she would have made.

Too much information. It could also be bullshit.

"Once a whore, always a whore, Raleigh," Meeran finished.

"Hasn't the fact she's avoided you for years a hint that maybe she doesn't want you around?" Samson nearly shouted.

As if in consolidation, the mercenary pushed the wine toward him. Whatever had happened, for whatever reason, Meeran was now banned and Faith didn't care about him. Except… she had asked Samson to work for this blockhead.

Really wanting to skull the wine though not wanting to lose control, Samson mustered a lot of self-resolve to sip it. _Targets_, calling him by his first name… all kinds of wrong.

"Yes and no." Meeran shrugged. "She trusted me with you. I think that says something, even if it doesn't mean much. She'll come crawling back if she's desperate enough, so that means she'll agree if I pull the strings just right."

This whole thing… was some screwed up threat. And agree to what? He didn't care anymore. The best outcome was for Meeran to fail in the most horrible way.

"Good luck with that," Samson said, with as much condescension as he could.

"I appreciate it, Raleigh," Meeran said, and he finished the wine, "Now piss off. Leave a word with the merchant on the other side of the Hanged Man if you want to get me."

Samson was still angry that Meeran called him Faith's _target_, like he was something she'd sought out to control or kill. Still, he couldn't figure out why that bothered him so much. The fact that Meeran was indescribably inhumane was only part of it.

* * *

Stopping briefly in Faith's house with the crate of purchases, he got changed into the armour (he lacked a full set), grabbed the sword and went back out. Obtaining the Dwarven Regicide was not the difficult part. Unnervingly he stepped over roots of dying trees, hoping he wouldn't find his father – if the man still worked in the mines. Thankfully, he didn't go anywhere near the workers. A man with mud over half his clothes and an uneven beard was visible at one of the less-known entrances, grinding leaves with a mortar and pestle.

"Hey," Samson said, "Know if any of the tree sap is poisonous?"

"Trees won't help anyone die," the man said, "useless, I know."

"Yeah? What's better?"

"Depends how much coin you have."

_Shit,_ he thought. Work was to earn money not lose it. Awkwardly, Samson recalled what he'd read at the piece of paper.

"I want to kill myself," he lied, softly.

The stranger's eyes became bulbous, "Really, mate? Life's that upsetting?"

"Sorry," Samson invented, hoping the next line would work, "It was just a punch line."

That seemed to do the trick. The stranger gave an incredibly forced laugh, and stood to his feet, "Come with me."

In a crate stored under the ground in the mine, Samson received what he was looking for. The Dwarven Regicide was mud consistency, black like ash and stored in a tiny flask. The glass and cork had been made especially to neutralize the distinct scent. He had three of them to make up the amount he was asked to retrieve.

"Thanks," he said, holding it up to the lantern 'Punch line' had.

"Tell jokes to me anytime," the stranger said, "Brightens my insides, ya know?"

"Yeah."

Samson wondered what else this Red Iron worker also did. Without another word, the former Templar hid it where he put those envelopes filled with Phillipa and Maddox's letters, lodged between his chest and armour. While it pressed against the skin, even hurt, maybe it would cause a rash or abrasion, it did not matter. Much like passing those love letters in the Gallows, this task took keen eyesight, knowledge of the area and a perfectly straight face. He had not realized how similar it was until that moment where he felt the cold against him, a heft he carried, that others could not see.

No friends were waiting at the other end of the journey.

He encountered them on the way.

* * *

Samson regretted that his work history put him in touch with many people in the community. Nathara spotted him a street from the Alienage. While cursing that skulking around the Gallows required more looking around corners, he figured acting like he hadn't seen them would be less suspicious. She was on patrol with another brunet with a thick neck, whom Samson recognized but wasn't too sure on the name.

"Good afternoon, Guardsman," she said, her accent somehow thicker, "Are you well?"

He didn't tell her, but Samson felt happy that she still called him by his previous title. It was as though Nath was saying she didn't despise him. Startlingly, he noticed details he hadn't before withdrawal, like how her eyelashes looked like they'd been permanently extended from her days as a servant.

"Yes, surprisingly," he admitted, "and yourself?"

"Overjoyed," She said, and although her tone didn't reveal it Samson knew she was telling the truth, "I think I am looking at the real Samson, unless my eyes are mistaken."

She must be referring to his lack of symptoms from withdrawal. What else could it be?

"If an Orlesian can't tell when someone is wearing a mask, then I think I'm a lost cause," Samson joked, with a proper laugh. It felt good to do this, as it reached all the way down to his chest, instead of the hollow sounds that barely left his throat.

"Indeed."

Nathara smiled.

"Did someone give you a beating?" the other man questioned. The expression was disconcerting, though before another question could be asked…

"And you are about to meet the end of it," Nathara affirmed. She closed the space between them and roughly slapped his fading bruise. With gauntlets, a slap fucking hurt. The sting was sharp, and blinded him for half a second by shock. "That is for being a fool and not thinking."

He wanted to say his dismissal wasn't from a _lack_ of thinking, but an inability to make a decision between two equally terrible scenarios, yet the ex-Templar didn't complain. He probably did deserve that.

"The Maker has already punished me enough," Samson mumbled.

"May you find your place, Guardsman," Nathara said, "and if you do anything more foolish Ewald –more probably, his eventual replacement- or I will be the first to know."

"You're not the only one with sharp eyes, Nath," her companion said.

"Yes, Donnic, but I actually _use_ them when I'm on patrol."

"I'll do my best to keep out of trouble," Samson said. He felt guilt for saying it, even though it was true, his best wasn't very good compared to his old comrades in front of him.

"Did you find somewhere safe to repair your foolish self?" Nathara inquired, more serious now.

"Yeah," Samson said, and he told the first story that came to mind, "One of my Templar friends said she'd let me stay at her parent's house."

"A woman?" Nathara, despite sounded surprised, remained stolid.

"She's a Templar, so not really," Samson joked, as Faith crossed his mind, but the elf didn't take the joke.

"We better not waste more time," Donnic informed his superior.

"Tell Corwin to get out more so I can say hi." Samson finished.

The elf snorted, amused by the suggestion.

"A tout a l'heure* (_Another time_)," Nathara said, although Samson wished she wouldn't use Orleasian, and then she screwed up her nose, "That is a terrible sword."

"I know," Samson agreed.

It was an ugly, plain thing, onyx with an obnoxious loop near the handle, and hard to balance. He couldn't believe that people in Kirkwall made do with these rubbish weapons.

"I'm not even sure a Dwarf would make something so crummy," Donnic added with a playful smile, and they left.

The former Templar stood for a moment in bewilderment, wondering why Zoe's offer had rolled off his tongue and not simply, 'I found somewhere to stay'. Did he want to accept her help… the assistance of her _family_?

The sound of the ocean rose from his memory like a melody, and the horror of her tears.

No.

He continued walking to the Alienage.

_Smuggling isn't too bad,_ Samson thought. Hope lifted his spirits. Accepting these types of jobs could be sustainable.

Not willing to start job number two so soon after, Samson made way for Lowtown.

* * *

'Aunt' Holgin was an eccentric, lively elderly woman that wore a curtain-like dress so proudly it could be a fashion trend no one else had discovered yet. She waved happily spotting him, as a father with his two daughters left.

"Good day, bright star! How are you today? Lovely breeze, isn't it?"

She sounded so genuinely happy it was apparent she was a natural saleswoman. Samson almost stopped in his tracks. Andraste chipped fingernails… this stranger had the very opposite of Faith's personality.

"Umm…" he felt awkward and looked at the piece of paper, "Faith wanted me to buy some things for her, _Tia_ Holguin?"

_Spare my soul,_ Samson thought, terrified by how energetic she was.

"I was expecting her in the evening. What a surprise to meet you, bright star." Holguin waved him over, "Your name? You know Faith well?"

Samson took one small step.

_I bleeding hope so,_ he thought, still worked up over Meeran, though he introduced his name.

"How did you meet her?" Holguin asked excitedly, "Do not get embarrassed. I know all about her work. She does a good job, I hear! I send her customers when I see good looking ones."

She winked.

_By the fucking Blight and Archdemon!_

This 'aunt' was either a Maker's messenger or the most terrible human in Thedas. While Samson got the impression from their conversation that Faith and Holguin were not close anymore, he had to admit she had great patience for someone who had possibly been given the cold shoulder.

* * *

Samson arrived at the Docks last, his thoughts clouded yet sharp from rage. The house was on a few streets over from the ocean, far enough that the smell of fish and sewage dissipated. In preparation, on the way there he repeated in his head over and over that the man deserved to die. Not hesitating, he knocked.

A voice came from the other side of the door.

"State your business."

"I'd like to talk to you," Samson said.

"I don't have time," the man spat, skipping the 'who are you and what are you here for?', "direct your services elsewhere."

_The only service I'm providing is death, wanker,_ Samson groused internally. Glancing here and there to check no one was there - he picked up his sword and maneuvered the hinges of the door like in the Circle, quick and efficient. The inside was badly lit, like the man hated the sun.

It cracked open just enough, and before the target could respond, Samson pushed himself through the door,

"Maker!"

Samson kicked the door closed.

"You demon!"

He didn't see much but a scraggly mess of clothes and furious eyes when his weapon struck.

"Get out of my house!"

It was simultaneously impeccably clear yet a fog, like a saturated vision, an array of mismatched colours plastered across his eyes. The thread of the fabric veneering the father's left shoulder sundered as quickly as the layers of skin. The scream was easily ignored.

Just as the target backed away to snatch a weapon on the mantelpiece, Samson sliced the back of his knees. It wasn't fair for the bastard to just _die_. That was too easy, too simple. He had to suffer for making a little girl suffer. Pain and debilitation were necessary first. The moment the scent of blood filled his nostrils, he attuned himself to the words.

"I haven't done a bloody thing!"

Bang. The moron tried to get away, but fell again, too hurt. Samson's eyes flashed. Still in a daze of immense concentration, he leaned the sword down into the target's leather boot.

"That is the problem," Samson twisted the sword from side to side, perturbed to feel the bones on either side that supported the toes, "Where's your daughter?"

Was this the meaning of a Templar instinct's… to protect to the point of murder?

"You're off your tree!" the father shouted, letting out a terrible shriek as Samson removed the sword and blood spilled into the floorboards.

"Whoever gave you that information was lying!"

It didn't matter if it was a lie. One objective mattered.

This time the agonized dialogue was barely comprehensible as the sword struck against the side of the fool's neck until the underneath musculature and nerve endings tore.

"You're a disgrace to the Maker."

It was his voice, but he couldn't pinpoint exactly when his mouth opened to say it. He concentrated on merely cutting what lay in front, destroying it. It wasn't a human he was killing. It wasn't even a neck he was severing. These were muscles, and nerves, and pieces of latticework that simply needed to be pulled apart.

"There are loose floorboards underneath a bookshelf in the study!"

"Thank you."

With a final exhalation, the sword was thrust through the target's stomach. He heard a cough, a choke, and saw a splatter of blood on the chest. He put the weapon on the ground, and wondered, peering at the cracks in the ceiling: who protected the rights of the monsters who could be redeemed, as rare as they were? Was Faith one of those people?

_The girl!_ Samson thought immediately, almost forgetting. Maybe he couldn't save her, but by the Golden City, he had to try. At least, he could find somewhere to dispose of the body… and to clean the blood underneath his boots.

"We're getting paid for the bastard being dead, not the girl," Samson said, to no one in particular. The concept of 'I' did not register.

In a rush, in the smallest room, he gripped on the largest bookcase he could see and pulled on it.

Underneath the study was grim, and more depraved than the Lowtown hide out. It was lit only by a lantern, was otherwise clean and relatively empty, except for a number of books. It seemed it used to be a cellar and scented of clay. Another stink of rot overwhelmed it – pervasive from a large fissure of broken stone to the left. Curious, he stepped close enough to see why it was so nauseating, pinching his nose before his gag reflex fought. Parchment, food scraps, old cigars, and books lay inside, some sort of terrible compost, with beetles and flies of all varieties zooming over it. He stepped away before a maggot crawled on his boot. Disgusting. He knew the sickening smell was now. It was sewage. He looked to the ceiling in dismay. Was this not a cellar at all, but a place where the plumbing would otherwise be broken?

Samson peered to the young girl, who truthfully, looked closer to six, not eleven. She was lying face down on the ground, her skin discoloured in some places, rough and then translucent. She looked like she was sleeping. Many rope burns and cuts ran up her legs. Her hair had obviously never been cut, and it splayed over her body like a cloak. As far as clothes went, it looked like some effort was made for her modest appearance, though not her complexion or health.

He could almost _hear_ Meeran laugh if he was watching, "That runt is going to be shaken when she wakes up."

"The shock might even kill her," Samson agreed to nobody, although he felt uneasy. He knew with certainty that this was a horrendous place to put a body, but he didn't have much other option. The Lydia woman would keep it quiet. On the assumption this girl hated her father, maybe seeing him dead would be a comfort. She obviously had dealt with worse.

The brunet did not think about the room until the body was chopped beyond recognition, mixed into the mess and the floors were cleaned with great deal more soap than they probably needed. No footsteps were getting closer. Chances are he could escape unscathed.

Unable to help himself, he went back to the room and, very steadily, watched her ribs to see if she was breathing. By the movement, she was. The rising and falling was faint, though, unmotivated breathing – apathy. With precision, he gently lifted the mousy hair from her eyes. What he saw was peace, perhaps an illusion of it. Her eyes were swirling under the lids. He hoped she was having a dream and not a nightmare.

Samson did not care for children. They were noisy and too much work for his liking. He had never felt so protective of a person – and he didn't even know her name. If it was his choice, he would carry her to the person who had hired him for this job, to make sure she wasn't going to receive further harm.

His piece of parchment didn't mention where 'Lydia' could be found. That wasn't what he was being paid to do, and seeking her out would only attract unwanted attention.

_Sorry, _he wanted to say, knowing his work ended here.

_This Lydia person better come to get her_, he thought, angrily, _if she's abusive garbage too…_

Samson hesitated, unsure of how to finish that thought. In the silence, a torrent brewed, stronger than habit, more powerful than an ocean rift: a craving. To consume, something, anything, that had any resemblance to lyrium. And there was no reason, no explanation, just as harshness would continue for the innocent life that didn't deserve it, whether she was brought into a safe home or not.

Clenching his jaw so hard he thought it might fracture, Samson tried to focus on anything but his own head, his mind a whirlpool of panic and hastiness, torn between the stenches in his nostrils that didn't seem to leave, the girls' markings, the cravings trying to force him to move against his will. He'd showered before leaving that wretched house, though he still felt covered in dirt. He thought going for a walk away from the Hanged Man would make a difference, as his gag reflex seemed very sensitive all of a sudden, but no luck so far.

* * *

"Faith used to force open doors at the hinges too," Meeran pointed out, sitting on some rocks of the Wounded Coast, where the ocean whooshed comfortingly. The air was fresher here, even with the smog from the Red Iron leader's cigar. "I find it astonishing how good you Templars are at using people up. Isn't the Chantry meant to make you more proper and honourable or something?"

"I am moral," Samson said, insulted this was even brought up.

"If you are, then so am I," Meeran said.

That was a lie -the most blasphemous load of bullshit. There was no comparison. Meeran _liked_ killing and twisting others and had worked in this trade for a long while. Samson could only justify killing those who deserved it, and even then, if there was no other way.

His skull felt like it would collapse onto itself. He didn't like killing people. On the contrary, he despised it.

It couldn't just be done. Outside of self-defence, murder couldn't be half assed. If someone had to die, they needed to be killed _properly_, in a very calculated, systematic way. An art resided in murder. Not just anyone could be granted the power to take lives away. He would always try to make it right, even if he couldn't.

Maker, what was he thinking? Only the possessed deserved death. Wait… that wasn't right either.

_Meeran did this! _

_I'm innocent. I'm just Meeran's puppet. _

He hated the puppet master. How could that Red Iron scum be grinning?

"I hope you get your eyes gauged out," Samson spat.

Meeran's lip curled sardonically. "I pray Faith diseases you."

"She probably already has."

It could be true, but he didn't care.

"Good."

The two caught eyes. There was no laughing, no jokes, but utter hatred, except for Meeran who seemed amused.

It was a lie. There was no comparison.


	17. Ignis - Flames

_Authors Notes:_ This chapter is NSFW. :-) Uh oh, spoilers! Thanks to Flaminea for the feedback. Part of this chapter was from an idea my previous beta SteveGarbage gave me - so Steve, if you ever read, please enjoy.

* * *

Laying face up on the bed, Faith said, "Was the Iron any easier today?"

Samson shrugged from next to her. He felt terrible about the two people that he had hurt, but if that girl could be freed, it wouldn't be so bad. He sighed without meaning to. "Was Lusine any help?"

"No," Faith groaned, "Did Meeran hit you again?"

"No." He wasn't in the mood to talk about that bastard, and he was sure Faith didn't want to hear about it either. "Did you get roughed up?"

Faith shook her head. Not being assaulted seemed to be the definition of a good day for both of them.

It was reassuring that Faith didn't interrogate him or demand further information. Despite how distressing the experience had been, he didn't want her home, a place of respite, to be disturbed by relaying gruesome details of mercenary life. It wasn't a big problem. He was capable of functioning keeping weighted thoughts to himself.

As they listened to the satisfying hiss of food cooking, he wondered if Faith avoided answering questions for a similar reason Samson now didn't want to be asked them.

* * *

Their conversation at the table was more a lecture, as Faith was curious as what had happened the night she found him. He skimmed over the details about Olina, and Faith mentioned the blonde being 'not as frustrating as the others'. Samson still couldn't bring himself to ask about her strokes.

After their meal the woman limped to the kitchen, took out a mixing bowl, three jars, the ingredients that Samson had purchased, fruit she must have bought and a spoon.

"Er, aren't we meant to bake another time?" he inquired.

"Yes, we will." Faith acknowledged her mistake, "but I wanted to show you how I make it."

"How spontaneous of you..." Samson said.

Faith gave a small smile. "There's something about cakes that inspire spontaneity in the best of us."

Samson tried to make sense of her logic, though couldn't. "I didn't know."

"No."

Butter and plums mixed rigorously in the bowl turned the chunks into a creamy rose paste. Half a vial of lyrium and two cracked eggs followed, making the batter lilac.

"At least it isn't blue," Samson said.

"I tried it once," Faith said, working at top speed. "Never again. Stir it quicker."

Amazingly fast, she roughly chopped a fig and a handful of almonds. Her precision with a knife was exceptional as she didn't cut herself once. The surface of the ingredients started to form small bubbles around the edges.

"Don't mind that," she advised, pausing to demonstrate how to fold the flour. It was easy enough to follow once she lent him the spoon.

Once the batter was poured into a clay cake mould and put into the fire place, their eyes met. Hers, that wondrous blue, glittered in the light. She lifted the spoon. The viscous left over mixture slid down the handle.

"Would you like some?" she asked.

Samson watched the batter slowly accumulate at the end pointed to the floor. "…Some what?"

Faith looked suspiciously at him, grouped together three of her fingers and scraped the contents of the bowl with them. It dripped down to her palm. "What manner of childhood did you have, exactly?"

_A very silent one,_ he thought, "Dunno."

Faith tipped the liquid into her mouth from her hand like it was a spoon and observed him patiently with an intensive gaze. The man felt somewhere between curious and mortified. That… really didn't look like it was the base for a cake.

She held out the hand she'd been sipping from. Remains of sticky liquid thinly coated it, like having fallen in mud. "Try it."

Reluctant, indecisive or fretful, hard to tell which, Samson grasped a small section of his shirt with two knuckles and absently moved them together. "Sure."

He leaned past her to grab the utensil, scraped the dirty side clean…. and then decided just copying her would be too dull. So he held out his now covered fingers to her face. "You sure it's edible?"

He heard the lyrium song, subtly thickening the air, making it harder to breathe and feel. Like his words were crossing a large distance, the response was delayed.

Faith's pupils dilated so obviously Samson wondered if he'd imagined it. Half the blue had vanished. Uncertainty filled him as he considered whether himself or the sensitivity to lyrium was to blame. He didn't know who she was or which truth he wanted to be real.

Faith smiled and pushed his wrist back to him. "Are you that convinced I'd poison you?"

The answer was obvious, though Samson's eyes followed the batter that dripped onto the floor. How could they stand so close and yet it felt they were speaking from the other side of the room? His wrist trembled. She was so cold, and yet, he didn't want her to be like that.

Smiling at her hesitation, he replied, "Of course I am."

Regardless of all his nervousness, a compulsion to make her warmer lingered, whatever that meant. His knuckles, continually moving, were getting sweaty, impossible to halt. Faith didn't let go, nor did her grip weaken, though strength didn't encapsulate her either. Her gaze was vigilant.

In a swift motion, his fingers became heated, damp and the mess was removed. It was so quick all Samson had time to do was keep his hand still, his fingers now chilly from the air hitting damp skin.

The woman had put his fingers in her mouth on the pretence of 'cleaning' them. Like an animal, she was ever watchful of the slightest nuance in his expression. Still, the act was too quick to be provocative, though too daring to be nothing.

"What are you hiding?" Faith questioned.

_What do you want from me? What do I want from you? What do you want with my fingers? _

The last question was the easiest to explain and was more likely to be answered. He tugged his wrist free, leaned past her again, his arm knocking her, and ran his fingers along what was left in the mixing bowl. "I can demonstrate."

He'd prove her wrong. The cake was poisonous. He averted his eyes from her as he consumed it, though felt self-conscious that she was watching. It tasted mildly sugary and perfectly of lyrium. Better than he thought, considering it wasn't even cooked.

"It's not so horrid," he admitted, scooping up some more.

The song was making it harder to think clearly. He… only wanted to know her, the same undeniable inquisitiveness he'd had before even meeting her. And right now, she was being receptive, though not verbally. It was better than nothing. It was enough.

Luckily for Faith, he had gotten rather talented at communicating with minimal speech at the Gallows with Zoe; all his stuttering, use of glances, facial expressions, body language and the stupid utterances. The first time he had stepped foot in this place it was for offering to please her physically. Words were parlous, lies. Perhaps for Faith benevolence embraced without language.

He moved his boots closer so they were nearly against her heels, so her corset was almost touching his chest.

Determined, he offered out his sticky fingers to Faith again, but gently hovered them ever closer to her mouth.

"Sorry for taking the rest from the spoon," he said, not entirely honest.

Were they allies?

It was not apparent if Faith was more fascinated on Samson or the mixture on his fingers. She did not step away or question.

"I can cope," she responded, and she gently held onto his wrist and poked his fingers into her mouth, only she seemed to freeze, leaving them inside, tongue unmoving and steady, as still and preoccupying as her gaze. With each second, the batter melted onto the bottom of her mouth. Their stance was held long enough to be an invitation, hiding a question, or perhaps many. It was a clue, and within it he salvaged a whisper to his plight.

Faith could have a temper tantrum and provide security in the same conversation. The whore had held a knife to his throat while trying to undress him. The stranger had demoralized him and cursed in ecstasy while she urged his aching hand deeper inside her. She was alluring and captivating without any justification.

Insight arrived, too. He'd made a mistake on the first night he left her house. The desire to understand Faith wasn't to fulfil a curiosity of how dismissed Templars _lay defeated_, but for the delight in seeing how they could stand anew. If she had strength, he wanted to find it, and if she didn't, he wanted to help her uncover it.

Did associates share their germs? Possibly -if they were perverse.

No matter who was who, whether in co-existence or collaboration, allies were honest with each other.

"I'm not sure I want my fingers back," he admitted, trying to sound as level headed as possible.

The woman promptly removed them, but dipped hers in the bowl again. There wasn't enough mixture left for any more secret messages. This was the last opportunity to discover why without words.

She pressed her breasts against him, and peered slightly down, tracing a small line from his chin upward with the tickling edge of one of her neatly trimmed nails. The mixture stuck to him like webs. He questioned the nature of her, and himself, if monsters were truly men or the weapons he drove into the hearts of his enemies.

Her eyes were full of guilt, or was it curiosity? Melancholy, or perhaps dread?

Her fingers halted at his bottom lip. The words were barely audible when she said, uncertainly, "I think it is poisonous."

So much uncertainty and sorrow rang in her tone, yet her response was agreement. Why did it feel like he had not won anything by proving he was right?

But some answers arrived. It wasn't right to just throw her fingers into his mouth. Sure that was all fun, though Faith didn't look like she wanted that.

Samson picked off the batter from his chin and slowly brought it to her lips. She retracted her hand, like she'd burned her fingers on hot coals. He paused, considering the possible outcomes.

Heart pounding, he carefully traced the liquid onto her lips and didn't peer away until he was content with the delicate mess he had made. Her emotions were unreadable.

"I can forgive you," he suggested, cautiously.

Faith blinked, once, twice, like in acknowledgement. Forgiveness seemed a comfort to the lady. She moved her nose to his nose, and did nothing at all. Samson tried to remember the blur of kissing her. He wanted it to be clearer, as colourful and certain as it was right now. Still unclear if this would make things better or worse, he closed their gap. He gently seized her lower lip with his teeth and rested, catching the mixture with his mouth. He wasn't sure if it was a kiss, though it became clear when he stayed still, from an undertone in his body, that he wanted to give her one.

Though not right now. Not this very second.

She didn't move. No clues were available and he wanted to have answers. He drew away.

Faith could have thought the same, for she wiped his face clean with her sticky hand and then sucked the last of the mixture from her lips and fingers.

"Better," she said.

There was no hint of a smile, though Samson was reminded of the previous night, when Faith asked if he could still breathe. He'd answered with the same word. Maybe Faith felt like she was unimpeded. That was… a relief.

"Good."

Faith took a towel, used it to take the cake out of the oven and place it on the kitchen bench.

She opened a small jar of ashen powder from a cabinet and sniffed it.

"This was the last batch of dust I have," she said, "I order in new lyrium every month and request the same amount every time. I organized to pick up a portion of my order the day after tomorrow, so will you come? We can divide what I get next and see how much we need."

Samson hesitated. He would personally prefer less lyrium but he didn't want his ability to work or sleep to be compromised.

"What about withdrawal?" he asked, slightly worried.

Faith didn't seem bothered. "The singing is basically permanently there, just louder or softer at different times."

"I mean _my_ withdrawal," he corrected her; "I still want to break free of it."

Faith looked at him, muddled. "I'm sorry, Samson. I already told you I can't. Even if you saved up a lot of coin, I will be out a lot working. Considering you got bad so quickly, if something went wrong…"

Samson's hopes fell. "The Chantry did this –we're just _stuck_. They should help us get better! They should take responsibility!"

"We are too much work to fix," Faith sighed, as if pondering the issue for the hundredth time, "When I left the Gallows, I stayed in the Chantry for as long as I could, a month. Elthina had a willing heart, but the Chantry did not. The Maker doesn't speak loud enough. That is why I stopped believing He can be trusted."

Samson took a moment to decipher the idea that the Revered Mother and the unified voice of the Chantry were not one and the same.

"I hate it," Samson said, "and myself."

"The _Chantry_ is at fault," Faith said firmly, "your failing was not your own doing. Or did I find you on my doorstep for a different reason?"

Samson struggled to recall his thought processes of that night.

"It's a nightmare," Faith told him, "but the fate of our withdrawals is not always up to us. It _would_ be easier if the Chantry did as it should. The one I didn't hear back about his withdrawal decided to travel to another Chantry to see if they were any better. I want to think he was lucky, but I don't want to leave now there's a Blight. The man who withdrew successfully from lyrium had a loving family to take care of him. He had also not been in the Order for as long, so maybe his brain was not possessed by the stuff." She paused. "It is difficult. There must be others who make it. I try to remember it is not simple." With a profound bitterness, she added, "The ignorance of those who have everything makes me sick."

"I despise it," Samson agreed, although his discomfort continued to linger. Maybe this was just it. He would have to live forever in conflict with himself. What kind of life was that?

She turned to the sink, filled it with water and they washed their hands with castile soap.

"About splitting lyrium between us…" Faith said suddenly, stopping the water, "I thought you'd be interested in my plan on how to distract ourselves if we are fervent enough to claw each other's eyes out."

She dried her hands, sprinkled lyrium dust on the cake as decoration and put the jar away. The violent insinuation, exaggeration or not, wasn't questioned. All he heard was 'plan' and that was reassurance enough.

"Yeah?"

Faith tugged on his arm and sat down on the floor, inviting Samson to follow. He did without question.

"Have you seen your first love lately?" she asked slowly, unlacing her corset.

Samson was too busy watching the thread untie to answer for a few moments, hypnotized. "I told Zoe to forget about me, even if I care for her. She deserves someone better than me."

"Hmm…" Faith eyed the man up, down and a small smile reached both sides of her face, "so there is no one else who could be _stealing_ your attention?"

His heart almost leaped out of his throat in anticipation. That smile.

"I didn't realize you wanted _my_ attention," Samson said carefully, shuddering at the thought. Wretched Maker, the eagerness in his body, he craved her to want him. He wanted her interest to be true. The need was so desperate that he didn't care if it was a means to play him or not. It had been too long, he had felt abnormal for too long, hadn't been able to relieve this tension for so bloody long. Looking into the fire wasn't helping, only a reminder that he wanted to blacken in surrender to his libido.

"You are striking," Faith said slowly. Her voice was nearer. Shit, she must have moved right next to him, "In all ways that matter. And I find sex a very useful distraction from lyrium cravings. I thought you might be the same, if we don't let you get too sick. You don't think it's a _bad_ idea, do you?"

The woman was trying to say… they should remove all their clothes and smash their bodies together to avoid giving into withdrawal symptoms… like this was something that should happen a lot? If Samson didn't bring his reservations to light he was agreeing to… something dreadful, no - brilliant. No. No. Lyrium withdrawal was anything but sunshine. It wouldn't be like how he felt now.

Faith corset hung ever looser, and despite having seen her disrobed before the context was different now. His body was _working_. He wanted Faith, whatever, but he had to think. _Think_. Use his brain.

Meeran had wanted to know if she'd been inspired to bed Samson without financial gain attached. This certainly didn't look like she was going to ask him for money. Samson wondered what the meaning of this would be, why Meeran cared.

"It's not a _bad_ idea," Samson said, "but…"

Words failed him.

_Bloody scorn_, he chided himself, _Meeran is getting to me. _

Meeran said he was Faith's target. It wasn't just the Red Iron leader, though, but a woman, too, a whore who was taking off her clothes for him. Now she was half naked.

This day was too much.

"Do you want to ask_ why?" _Faith guessed, and she crossed her arms, "I didn't think you would mind."

Thankfully, she didn't sound angry, but confused.

"Am I being used," Samson forced the words out, almost tempted to hide his face again, "to quieten the choir, like how you use your job to do the same?"

Faith teased at a laugh that didn't leave her throat. "No."

Samson glared at Faith, wishing he could tell whether she was lying or not.

Seemingly lost in her own world, she fluttered her eyelashes and traced his jawline with a single finger. "I understand why you're worried. Intensely, but are you honestly under the impression that I perceive you like I do my customers?"

He revered her as she removed her stockings and curled her toes, nails painted in blue, the lyrium an ever present temptation. Too intimidated by the intensity of his own emotions, Samson pushed himself away from her on the floor.

"What is the difference?!" he fretted, his heart pounding from panic, anger and infatuation, "I provide you with money and you get to mess with me."

Faith appeared as if she had been struck in the face. Suddenly, her expression was like marble. "Don't talk like that."

"Why not? Is it true? Are you just fucking me around?"

"No, I'm not _trying_ to use you," she said finally, "but I'm sorry if it seems like I am. I want to help you as much as I want to help me." She looked sorry enough. "Would it help if I told you something about me?"

"Depends what you say."

Faith took a quick look at a clock on the mantelpiece. "I am very selfish sometimes. I was furious at you the night I let you do my job," she confessed.

"I remember," Samson said,

Faith turned back to him. "Here, I'll admit it - and you can judge me, Rotten Andraste can judge me, but…" she hesitated, "I was so angry you couldn't fuck me."

Again, Samson couldn't think. This was one of the last phrases he was expecting to hear, especially with the tone she used like a bride gushing over flowers. It was obvious that she was extraordinarily infatuated with him, bizarre how palpable it was, how completely undeniable the behaviour was, yet… he had been repulsive while ill. Being somehow desirable in that state was unfathomable.

_She's probably both desperate and out of touch with reality._

"Why is the Chant worshipper sick? If he was better, he could fuck me for real,' that's what I thought, over and over again. It is horrible, I know better than anyone - when you were so ill and needed so much assistance," Faith ruminated, her words partially glued together, "And…There. I confessed a flaw of mine. Does it help?"

Samson paused, forcing himself to look at her eyes. The pupils had dilated again, so much so they were almost black. This information…whatever it was… wasn't exactly about something worth complaining about. That couldn't be the only reason she had been angry at him, but it didn't seem like Faith was going to expand on her feelings anymore.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Picture this," Faith said, suddenly appearing thoughtful, "There are two people you know very well, good friends. They have never betrayed your trust before. They are kind to everyone, and you have good taste in friends. Both of them say that they will celebrate your namesday, but only one is telling the truth. How do you tell which one?"

Samson hesitated; trying to imagine that both Zoe and Cullen had said this, because they were the only ones he could think of. "If one behaves strangely."

"They don't," Faith said, "They say it with utmost conviction, but one of them has ill intentions. _One_ of them lied. Which?"

If there was no indication of which person was behaving out of character, there would be absolutely no way to determine the answer… unless he asked them directly and the person was feeling particularly honest.

"Is this a trick question?" Samson asked after a while.

"In a sense," Faith said, "Until the truth shows itself, when it comes down to it, there is no obvious difference between expert liars from someone who is honest. Besides..." She frowned. "You're behaving… on edge. Did Meeran say anything about me?"

Samson sighed. She must know what Meeran was doing, yet he was stressed enough. "I don't want to talk about it."

"But I want you to calm down."

"I'll ask about Meeran another day, Faith." An odd buzzing combined with the lyrium's whisper. "Compensation isn't on your mind for your plan?"

Faith tilted her head confused. "Coin rarely is."

_Andraste burn me_, Samson thought. This was exactly what Meeran wanted to know. His stomach knotted. All in all, he wasn't sure how to manage cravings yet, so there was nothing wrong with her plan in theory.

"I'll give your plan a try," Samson said finally.

_Meeran would be jealous as hell if he could see…._

"…And right now?"

"Huh?"

"I'm sorry, but I'm so curious," Faith said.

"You want me right now?" Samson was surprised. Only Zoe had said that she wanted to sleep with him. He was so used to needing to instigate these things himself.

"Yes. Why do you think I am taking off my clothes?"

Samson shrugged. "Not used to it."

"Because of Zoe?" she guessed, "When you told me the story, I suspected she was the kind of fool who wanted to sleep with you for a long time and was just waiting for you to say that you wanted to. I hate that behaviour. Your flirting made it obvious. If she wanted to, she could have made more of an effort. It's two faced. She probably thought she was above you."

"Zoe said she was sorry," Samson said, "I don't think she would wait around like that, though."

She eyed him, curious. "Should I remove the rest of my clothes? Please don't feel pressured. If I must, I'll bathe on my own, and do something about it then."

_Faith isn't trying to hurt you,_ he told himself, _unless she's lying about that, she's doing her very pathetic best to be decent._

Upon their introduction, Samson wanted to forget about his pain and be with Zoe. He remembered wishing he had been well enough to have a good time in the Rose, even if it ended with puking.

The night he wandered aimlessly, being with Faith was a blur, but had enjoyed how she smelled, his body calling for lyrium. Meeran's desire of her made Samson possessive.

His blood pounded through his body at a force that might make his body break, as though it knew Samson was unaware and was desperately trying to get his attention. His body had forgotten how to feel and desired to awaken. He forced himself to look at the fire to stop his provocation from being apparent immediately.

He raised his sweaty hands from the floorboards to stop himself moving away.

"I had forgotten how distracting it is…" his words shook slightly as he spoke, "when I want something."

Faith intimidated him. That was the truth. Not for her violent tendencies, for he trusted she would minimize them, but she was far more experienced in that area than he could ever hope to be. There was no way he could please her if she let him to his own devices. Even if he felt better here than in the Barracks, there was a risk involved with admiring her.

"I am bothered by the thought, princess," he mused slowly, "that if I don't react in a way that gratifies you, you will make me wish I had never come here."

Faith gave a teasing smirk. "I'll try to be patient with you."

Something akin to a lightning jolt went up his spine. "That doesn't help."

"If you're daring enough, there's something fun I could show you to help with your nervousness."

"What?"

"How about dessert?" unable to suppress a grin, she gestured to the bench top.

Samson understood the insinuation a little slowly. Blight taint, the woman wanted them to eat the lyrium cake _now_…

"It might get messy," he blurted out.

Faith grinned. "Trust me. It'll taste better if we have it now."

He knew with absolute certainty that Faith had possessed him, for if someone had suggested making lyrium into a cake in the Circle, he would have screwed up his nose and said they had warped ideas, "Let's try it then."

Faith looked very happy about this. For a moment, she rocked on the spot, maybe she couldn't figure out how she wanted to sit, and stood to check on the cake, picking off a small piece with her fingers. Then, she took the clay from the bench top with a cloth, scooped portions onto small plates with a spoon and sat down on the ground.

Samson chuckled from the absurdity of it. She was half naked, sitting with him on the floor with cake. A small piece was served on his plate, compared to the three times larger slice Faith had scooped out for herself.

Faith took the first mouthful, spilling some onto the floor, which she quickly picked up. Samson followed, trying not to spread crumbs everywhere. The lyrium couldn't be tasted immediately, but it had a sharp, recognizable aftertaste. After he finished his, warmth didn't just reach his stomach, but spread to his fingers and his toes. This lyrium was different to the Chantry one, although he was happy right now.

Faith raced to consume it, watching the fire as she licked parts off her teeth, turned away and pulled off her corset, shoulder blades spreading apart like the wings from a tightly woven cocoon, the skin underneath a molten caramel. There was only the skirt left. With each subsequent bite, she appeared to be happier, and started to hum absently to herself.

Lyrium empowered him beyond normalcy. Now, his body was trying to turn into something else, perhaps the killing machine the Chantry designed it for. Fear was wiped from his spectrum of emotion. It was not something he'd acutely noticed before.

The woman wiped her face, picked up the plates, and put them back on the kitchen bench. He peered at her now bare back, forgetting what he had just been talking about as her outraged, erratic demands of the other night she'd been undressed took its place.

When Faith sat down, she let her arms fall away, her breasts exposed and tantalizing. "Do you know how it feels – to be denied a person's body – when there is nothing else you want more in that moment?"

He thought he was only starting to grasp the full meaning of this emotion, maybe even right now, so he shook his head.

"Shall I teach you how that feels?" she asked.

Lust and a sense of accomplishment coursed through him, seeping into his very head, an invincibility that eradicated inhibitions.

"Yes."

No doubt, only perseverance.

"If you need or desire for it to stop," she said carefully, "How will you communicate this to me?"

It didn't feel like he needed to pause to think. "I will say stop or throw you off me."

"There will be no need for throwing," Faith said calmly, with a steely raise of an eyebrow, "Will you _say_ stop if the circumstance arises, or are you merely claiming you will?"

No hesitation, merely obedience. "I will, Faith."

"That is reassuring." Faith smiled.

Samson grinned back and found he also didn't seem like himself when he spoke. "I adore that you're completely mental for me and I don't have to do anythi…"

His eyes closed as Faith's lips pressed against his, enticing and soothing at once. Samson knew that in normal circumstances that he would have been too intimidated to peer into her soul's depths, but the lyrium had awakened bravery inside, and he pushed her onto the ground. More than ever, his emotions free of resistance; he realized that he wanted her to desire him.

The lyrium's song sounded like a pleasant hum in his head compared to the horror of withdrawal. The lyrium was happy too.

"I knew you had spirit, Samson," Faith declared, but it sounded like it echoed into his brain, "I'll make you want me the most."

Samson almost wished he could, but didn't, look away. The woman wiggled out of her undergarments and skirt. Samson let her. He dragged the make up off her face with the saliva from their kisses and wiped it over her neck and chest. Not resisting, Faith kicked the clothes away. The exhilaration through Samson's body was so powerful that he couldn't tell he had an erection, but Faith's eyes flickered down, and her smile implied that he did.

The light from the fire illuminated her features far better than any other times he had seen her, a sunset of sweat, those dark marks on her face, curves, breasts and those asymmetrical nipples. The details had not registered the last time he had been with her. For someone about a decade his senior, it was a crime how stunning she was.

"I'd know that look from anywhere," Faith said, "Even if you are fearful of being with me," she hesitated, "I can be patient."

"I am not afraid," Samson said, feeling powerful as he said it, "and I'm not patient either."

It sounded so right, so _true_ to his core, and he also knew this voice rarely spoke.

Faith laughed, but he shut her up fast.

They kissed more, intensely, but not threateningly so. The passion built ever stronger. Samson only admired her, and couldn't help but try to tame his own arousal beneath his fingers, not caring if he was scolded or not.

Faith pulled Samson closer and groaned agonized, feeling Samson's now functioning hardness against her.

"Take them off," she mumbled, pulling at his clothes.

As he did, thought and reality became a thin line. In it were kisses, hers and his, whatever she could reach, whatever he could, and when he was as naked as she was, he trembled without accompanying discomfort.

"I don't know how I should take you first," he said, "maybe give me instruction like last time."

"Show me yourself," the woman's answer was simple. "Give me spirit, your seed, your everything…"

It was only in the embrace of the lyrium's hum that these words made any sense.

"You're asking a lot of me," he remarked.

Faith didn't seem distressed by his hesitation. "Yes, but you can give it. You listen well, and you follow instruction even better."

Samson's look was questioning, but the woman nodded.

_It is not my fault I was given orders, but following them makes me a good puppet,_ he recalled his own chant.

Samson remembered one of the many sins Faith asked him to do the last time, when he believed it to be purged from memory. With lyrium and Faith he was fearless, in the most rotten safe haven. Home.

He did what she wanted without question, practically reading her mind. The first element Samson noticed that was different was his focus, and as such, he was able to move with more precision than before. With a clear head, his mind registered every utterance from Faith's mouth and stored it in his memory with ease.

The next quality that enriched this encounter was Faith's mood. She was ecstatic. Perhaps because she knew Samson's body was functioning as it should, she knew all her wants could be fulfilled, no matter how selfish they were. The only condescension in her voice was her commands.

Finally, Samson felt his body would never wear out, and the world was sped up like flashes against death's curtain. He was starting to compare the taste of Faith to lyrium when she pulled his hair.

"You want to finish singing?" he guessed.

"Sit up!" Faith shouted, and the man complied without a single objection. She copied. They were both heaving for breath, caught up in the pace and rush of it all, and the lyrium would keep pumping them with courage to do anything in the world.

Not knowing what curse had befallen him, Samson prayed he wouldn't spontaneously combust. He hadn't successfully relieved himself of sexual tension since he had known her. Now, his body ached. It was difficult to quantify if this was its usual state around Faith, or if his body had been storing its desires even during withdrawal.

Faith lowered her mouth onto his length. A torture he wished to end, one so grievous he reached down with the intention of manoeuvring her head, but Faith grabbed his hands and twisted them, a strength she never possessed sober. Maybe Meeran was right, he was a target to be used. Samson, annoyed, waited patiently for the prostitute to reach the limits of her throat. He did not care for the noise he made, for Faith was far worse. His heart raced beyond human possibility, and sweat dripped onto Faith's head.

"Faith…." Samson said suddenly, "it'll be over for me if you keep that up."

The prostitute lifted her head, "You have more endurance than this."

"Do I?" he asked.

"Yes!" Faith's voice was frantic, "Look within and breathe into it. _Go beyond_. _Be_ robust. You are above all limitations!"

It didn't sound like Faith at all. Sparks practically flew from the blue of her eyes. An army of souls were under her command. She was using them, willingly contorted herself to be Their speaker. She spoke the vibration of the lyrium, the Lyrium's Queen, a powerful creature and not doubting a single word.

This magnificent woman placed a hand on Samson's chest. He understood their great ruler's instruction. Luxuriating in his connection with the room, the world, he breathed, focused, and strength found him. The technique was effective, numinously. He calmed down in the sea of insanity.

"I can take it…" he said, as though accepting death.

Samson felt the Lyrium obeyed Faith like one of their own.

Only tonight could he focus on two sensations at once, wholly and completely.

* * *

Samson's head spun.

"Fuck," he groaned, not knowing if he wanted to say 'fuck this', 'fuck you' or an insult, "You should have been burnt to a crisp instead of blighted Andraste!"

The woman didn't bother to counter it.

"I bet you now know how it feels," Faith said in an undertone, "Don't you? You want to fuck me, regardless of what I think or say." Her tone was remarkably aggressive, "If you do, tell me you want it."

The former Templar truly hated Faith in that moment, wanted her to suffer for being such a rotten tease and a hypocrite. The scorching in his body seemed to hiss with smoke, and for a few seconds it dwindled. Maybe he was coming down from his invincibility.

"I want you," he said, meeting her eyes fully.

"_How_?" Faith dejected, prodding his chin upward, "That tells me nothing. It is not specific, or emotive. If you want to impress me, to inspire me to give you my all, try again."

Samson kissed her neck angrily, "You're the one who wanted _me_, princess."

Faith would not stand for this excuse. "Tell me you want to fuck me or I will walk away. Your failure won't bother me in the slightest."

_Bitch_, Samson thought. His thoughts and speech were starting to separate.

Forcing himself to look up into that horrid blueness again, it was hard to say if there was more blood in his face or at his cock.

"I am not even close to worthy, Their Glorious Queen…" he said, not sure what he was feeling besides extremely turned on, "but I want to fuck you, because you're a little nice and very confusing, and pretty." His inhibitions flashed by. "If by some miracle you let me inside you, I would comply to your every selfish, abominable objection."

In the tense silence, Samson peered away and considered hanging himself in embarrassment.

"You do know how to listen," Faith said simply, "Very well."

* * *

Too lazy to move to the bed they just used the floor, and a wall. Still seated, Faith positioned her legs around his waist, using her knees to position herself above his hips. She then wrapped her fingers around his neck and observed his features.

"You're not used to this."

"No," Samson admitted.

"What do you think?" Faith asked, "I like that we can be almost eye level this way. It is like we're not so different."

Her dark nipples almost touched his collarbone for how close she was, even if she hadn't lowered herself to combine their bodies.

"We're not," Samson admitted, and inspired by the lyrium added, "Your eyes are my eyes, my eyes are yours."

"Sometimes I qualm," Faith said, kissing him on the forehead, "But I believe you more than Their voices."

The lyrium said it, but Samson was just the messenger. He knew what was said was true. The drug had a wisdom that poisoned his mind and heart, uncovering the truth of nature. Samson admittedly felt uncomfortable to sit like this with her weight pressing down on his legs, but maybe Faith was used to worse. He made sure he was positioned nicely against the wall to not fall over, but everything was slippery.

"Are you certain…" Samson clenched his jaw, remembering what she had said earlier, "you want my seed?"

"Very," Faith assured him, "Nothing will come of it. When They bestowed on me Their crown, it came with responsibilities and sacrifices."

A body that couldn't create new life, not for love or duty. Samson wasn't sure how to think about this, besides the fact it was unfortunate, and he hoped it didn't make Faith sad.

The fire was dying next to them.

When Faith lowered herself and Samson entered her it was like someone had freed them of all his wrongdoings in life and the sounds of atonement coalesced with the moment, a semblance of reconciliation and amity, at least, until they started to move. The lyrium's spell came over them, purging them of fear. Faith shook.

"Lyrium?" Samson guessed.

"Everything," Faith replied reluctantly.

Samson pulled her closer to stop the shaking.

At first quick, then quicker - there was no need to experiment, only a knowingness of what to do and how, and where to angle what. Maker, it was hectic. Faith, it seemed, did not want to let go. She latched onto him.

He replied to her panic with kindness.

Samson said, "I've got you."

As their rhythm fluctuated, Samson was startled and intrigued by the sounds that exited from Faith's mouth. Her moans were not vicious or impatient, but candid and unrestrained, something powerful and yet utterly defenceless. He dug his nails into her skin. Underneath the intensity, he felt an inkling of anxiety. The lyrium was wearing off.

Faith's voice softened, gradually. She didn't have weakness here, although it was returning, and Samson ignored physical setbacks, though the knocking from the floorboards was getting louder.

Soon, Samson found he could not kiss her, but lashed forth in a desperate frenzy when she kissed him, fighting for something that had no victor. His admiration of her was overwhelming his bravery, and as these moments become more frequent, their movements ceased to have cadence and all hope for congruence died.

When his anxiety returned, Faith's weakness in one side did as well and she cringed in discomfort. It seemed the lyrium was leaving them at the same time, while their bodies were doing something else.

"Faith…" Samson muttered, suddenly worried by how the woman's gaze was inward.

He struggled to balance as he wiped sweat from her face. "Faith, you alright?"

Faith pushed on Samson's shoulders, "Let me do it. Let me. I need to be free from their songs. I don't want it to come back. I want it to be real."

Samson didn't have a clue what was happening, but pushed away from the wall and lowered himself onto his back, "It is real."

"It can't be."

"Why?"

"It just can't!" she protested.

He could understand. The high made him feel like a supernatural being that could change the world at will, a King that had total control, but now he was turning back into a person, a sad lonesome man, and she was a broken woman, trapped by her mind, her body destroyed by the spell that made her feel like a Saint and turned her a Queen.

He didn't want it to stop either, but at least he had Faith with him. Somehow, that made the disappointment of losing his confidence not so devastating.

All the while his muscles burned, reminding him that they had limits and he had surpassed them probably long ago. She pulsed with an uncoordinated exhaustion, intense in a different, more palpable way than before.

The light from burning coals distorted shadows around them like it is from the Fade and their bodies slipped.

As lyrium disappeared, disquiet intensified.

Samson grabbed what he can reach of her and wanted to remind her that this was real, even if it seemed like it wasn't. The words had gone. He could no longer verbally express his thoughts. Meeran would want to kill him if he could see, or maybe his boss would just try harder to get Samson to help him. Shit.

Faith wiped the sweat off her and met his eyes with focus.

"Samson." She touched his face like he had spontaneously materialized from under her. "You're actually here."

"Good observation, princess," he said, "Are _you_ here?"

Nearly prepared to give up from physical exertion, Faith's back arched and her breathing twisted to the point where Samson thought she was trying to suffocate herself. She murmured obscenities, nothing terribly new, each increasingly louder and more agonized, then she lets herself fall onto him, gripping the man so tight that he was drenched in her sweat more than his own. He held his breath and groaned as she shuddered. With a laxness, she permitted him to take over until he responded the same and his muscles were finally allowed to rest, in such agony.

Faith went limp, mumbled and held him close. It became obvious quickly that something was wrong. The woman hurriedly moved off of him as though they had suddenly been walked in on and lay on the ground. Shaking, perhaps too exhausted to move, she covered her eyes with an arm. Perhaps she was keeping a secret about her torment, reprimanding herself for a realization.

Startled but not condemning, Samson sat up. Everything hurt. Speech was barely heard from Faith's mouth.

"I can't move…. I can't move… fuck, it hurts… shit, I can't move. I can't feel. I can't…"

The ex-Templar had been too on edge lately for hurting others that he thought he understood what he was hearing. Faith had only cried in front of him once and that was when she was reminded of a bad memory, but the sound was different to then, more subtle. He was too full of emotion, yet deprived of it, to find cause to her sadness.

Faith tried to move though slipped and barely caught herself as she fell onto the ground. "I… need…. I have to move, I have to… I can't move, I can't… ow…" she sounded like she had a cold. "I CAN'T FUCKING MOVE…" she groaned, "WHY?"

The grim and dark answered. Samson got the impression it was a rhetorical question and she was just thinking out loud, so he said nothing. Likely, she was as worn out as him, though her weak side meant she was more crippled by that.

Awkward and languid, Faith tried to stand, realized she couldn't, so crawled with a limp to a room Samson hadn't entered, next to the one with the chamber pots. He watched her, too tired to move or say anything, as she struggled, slipped and kept going, an injured being seeking her nest. At some point he swore she was pulling herself across the ground with her arms.

Samson gathered all their clothes, muscles aching like he'd ran all around Kirkwall in his armour. Moving _did_ hurt.

He grabbed the lantern from the bedside table and followed her.

* * *

In the corner of the tiny room Faith was shaking in the small tub that barely had enough space for one person, trying to get the stink and everything off her by the small, low pressure shower head. Bewildered, Samson walked up to the side of the tub and sat next to it. Even over the gushing water, the sounds were unmistakable, tears.

"What are you crying for?" he asked finally.

"It isn't _your_ fault," Faith said bluntly, wiping her eyes on her knees, "I can't talk… about it. Don't… want to."

Then all words disappeared. She twisted away from him, and the tears –whatever the reason they were there– didn't want to stop. The shaking, however, lessened. Samson didn't know what to do. All he had was a prayer, a single wish. If only kindness was enough to make Faith understand she wasn't on her own - if the _intention_, the most innocent, silent thought could be communicated through the outpour of ice, the world had a hope. With the tips of his fingers he reached through the water, ignored the rebound of droplets onto his arm, and gently touched her shoulder. He didn't move. The stream continued to flow, clicking against him, disrupting the seamlessness of her wall. The water was ice, yet she felt warm. If beyond this stillness, goodness was what she _felt_, maybe her world could become less fearful.

Faith sniffed loudly into the dark.

"Can… you… ?" she muttered, between heaving breaths from a runny nose. It was almost alarming how unlike Faith she sounded, "l-l-l-like…"

She reached out and grasped one of his hands, and Samson thought he knew what she was referring to. She wished for the most simplistic expression of company, like yesterday.

"Of course," he said, somewhat relieved he could do something.

Samson reached his arms around her waist, getting them in the water, hurting his back from how he was leaning and Faith clutched his hands with the two of hers.

There was no explanation, and although the crying and trembling slowly dissipated, Faith's grip on Samson's hands did not. Regardless if he would discover the reason why, Samson knew then that he wanted to protect her from crying ever again.


	18. Fastidio - Loathing

Specks of lilac crumbs stuck to her impeccably trimmed nails and the corner of her mouth. Fortified behind the curtains, the sun was the enemy yet Faith's smile emulated it. Instead of dressing and leaving like Samson wasn't even there, she sat on the edge of the bed, and offered a perfectly measured portion on a small plate to him. The sight was aberrant from the pillow.

"Wansum?"

This was different. Too overcome with gratitude, he nodded.

"You spoil me," Samson said. Languid, he added, "You look cheerier this morning."

Well-presented and yet uncivilized, the woman smiled wider and gestured to the lyrium cake.

"Does it taste better?"

Faith swallowed and avoided his eye. "I need to go."

Without another word, she picked up her walking stick, held it over her shoulder like a weapon and approached the door with uneven steps.

"Goodbye," Samson said, unsure of how to address her. The word felt incomplete and pendulous. He could not deny he felt at home here, though it was a mystery why. Physically, this place had no resemblance to the Gallows.

Unexpectedly, Faith turned back and waved. No smile, just acknowledgment.

The door closed with an unpleasant sound. As he bit into the cake, he recalled holding her the night before. That _had_ actually happened. Odd.

Her tears were a lie. Faith wasn't broken. She was indestructible.

Once he put the plate away, Samson found the rest in the larder covered in a cloth. Like his portion, the cake was divided into small parts like bricks, layered like an untouchable altar.

_I wouldn't know how much to take without Faith anyway,_ Samson rationalized. Conjuring an image of Faith angry was far too easy, and he doubted she would be pleased if he consumed her lyrium cake without asking.

* * *

He slipped out of his underclothes.

_Zoe,_ Samson remembered the glow of her green eyes near the ocean's edge.

_If you're afraid I'm going to scold you like Cullen or Phillipa, I won't. I'm not like them, Samson._

_When I've figured it out I'll write it down just for you in a letter._

Denying himself a connection with her ached, yet until the fog obscuring his purpose had cleared, he couldn't write. It would go against his promise.

_Burning Andraste_, Samson swore to himself. Given his favourite girl, the butterfly, had been in tears at the time, he didn't want her waiting for a letter long.

In both Samson the Templar Order and the Guard he was sworn to protect others in a capacity or another, yet he failed in protecting Phillipa and Maddox. What kind of Templar did that make him?

Phillipa had broken the rules too, and she used to worship them as much as the Chant. While the man couldn't justify writing to Zoe yet, he wondered if Phillipa might be able to help him unearth his purpose. _Then_ he could write to Zoe.

The curiosity was enough that when he finished putting his armour on, he rummaged in some drawers for parchment. Faith had many variations, some even made of thread. Out of a motley of quills, Samson picked a crimson one and plain parchment, spotting a scribble in the corner of the sheet directly underneath.

_Paradise is buried in the past _

_When the shovel is bent and hands are weary_

_Look to the shoreline for strangers with clemency _

It was Faith's handwriting, but her neater, ordinary scroll. Unsure of what it was talking about, Samson's only inference was that poetry was embarrassing.

_By the Blight_ \- _Maddox better not have written anything like that to Phillipa. _

Samson found an ink pot and seated himself at the dining table.

_Dear Phillipa,_

_I know it is sudden to write. If the timing is rotten, ignore the letter if you want. I don't want you to worry yourself into a fever._

_After all the times you wanted my help, would you be able to return the favour for your letter hoarding friend?_

_I have a question, and don't tell Zoe about it._

_Read that again._

_Please. Don't. Tell. Zoe. If anything comes of this letter, I'll explain to her when I'm collected and smart enough to phrase it. I'm not doing this to keep secrets; I need time to translate the muck from my head. That is, if I still have one. Ha, ha, ha._

_Do you think your purpose at the Gallows is the same as it was at the start? I don't think mine is. I'm not sure how it's different, just that it is. If it is not going to break you, can you ask Maddox what he thinks?_

_Maker, I hate it, but I am completely lost. You're one of the only souls I know who would have clue what He truly says._

_Like I said back in the Circle, I will never stop being sorry for what happened with Maddox. Please let me know if there's anything I can do. You don't deserve anguish. Remember how you said that to me? It is decent advice. Take heed of your own wisdom._

_If you want to write anything, forward it to the Blooming Rose. An acquaintance, Olina will take it._

_Be well._

_Samson_

He paid for its delivery on the way to the Docks. Meeran was leaning against a wall of the Warehouse district, looking as annoyed as the Harbormaster.

"You look more screwed up than usual," Meeran muttered.

"Not any more than you," Samson retorted, and smirked when Meeran gave an amused sniff in response.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

Breathing the cool air through his nose, Meeran didn't press that line of questioning, but moved his face nearer to Samson's ear.

"Have you spoken to Faith yet about what we talked about yesterday?"

The mercenary leader wanted to _talk_ to -more like belittle, grope, or beat up- Faith. Samson had completely forgotten about this, "No."

"My schedule is stuffed to the brim," his boss said with a cruel glare, "It is your choice, Raleigh, but a reminder of your existence would come in great use. So I don't forget."

A part of Meeran must want to accommodate him, even for just Faith's sake, so like teasing Cullen about girls, Samson intended to exploit it.

"Sorry. She got home late yesterday, so I didn't get the chance," he said, hiding a smile, "Busy whore, ain't she?"

Seeing Meeran's expression darken ever so slightly was undeniably satisfying. "Fine."

That tone really meant 'I want to crush your balls with my hands', but in a way, Samson realized, he had some control over this situation, for now anyway.

"You've got shit to do today," the mercenary leader mumbled. "But a pile of excrement is far easier to clean than piss in a rug, so…. Be glad I got better things to do than keep you company. Meet me in the Hanged Man when the sun has gone down. I might have something else for ya."

Samson did not have the slightest idea how a comment like that was supposed to be answered, so he said nothing.

The job involved bargaining, but thankfully, he didn't have to smash any faces in.

As he weaved past the streets and avoided everyone there was to avoid, like Captain Ewald and Thrask for example, Samson thought of the lyrium, the power, and the sense of invincibility. He wondered, in the strange part of his mind, if engulfed by the lyrium's symphony was how Meeran felt all the time. If so, maybe there was some appeal in moving up the ranks of mercenaries.

* * *

With his time off, Samson purchased more armour, bought a nice lunch, and went for a run around the Wounded Coast, before returning to Faith's house to change back into normal clothes. He didn't stay long.

Wishing there was something better than _Verses of the Tranquil _in her book collection, he picked up his fishing gear and left.

The book was odd, written by a scholar who was interested in 'the mind within the mindless', compiling notes and interviews with Tranquil from the Starkhaven and Orlesian Circles. The author thought that if Tranquil mages had fluctuations in emotion, they could be said to have a temperament, the building blocks of a personality, but the preface noted the theory was heavily criticised. It was an old book, the first of its kind, possibly the last, evident by the spine that was falling apart.

Samson could guess why Faith owned a book like this, but _he_ didn't like it much. It reminded him too much of Maddox, and that was incredibly painful.

Still an amateur fisher, it took a few times before he caught one. Guards passed every so often, but he ignored them.

As he threw his third, sadly very small catch, into the bucket, Samson caught eyes with a Templar, one he instantly placed a name to. The lazy mess of red hair identified him from a mile away.

"Chandler?" he blurted out, not sure why he was surprised. If Meredith could stroll here, anyone could.

Chandler raised his thick brows in recognition, "Samson?"

Looking bewildered, the Templar abandoned his walk to stand next to Samson, avoiding the water's edge.

"Good to see you're not in a sewer," Chandler said, which was the last sentence Samson was expecting.

"Is it?"

Chandler was one of the Templars that Samson only mingled with when branching away from Cullen. They were not close friends, just brothers, as Chandler didn't seem to like calling his brothers or sisters as such, just 'those people' and 'things'. He had known Bailey quite well, but their personalities clashed oddly at times and they never truly became warm with each other.

"What's wrong with you?" the red-head scowled, "your group of buddies aren't the same with your sorry face gone."

"We both know who did that," Samson mumbled, angrily.

Chandler grumbled and crossed his arms, "Maddox had it coming."

Usually Samson could brush off Chandler's indifference, but this was something else.

"That's new," he said, shocked, "he was _your_ charge!"

"He was my charge, not my _friend_," the Templar corrected, "at least _I_ know the difference."

It seemed inhuman that someone thought Maddox deserved what happened to him, no matter the context. Samson said nothing.

Sighing frustrated, as though Chandler would rather poke out Samson's eyes, he slowly sat down next to Samson, who promptly made room and put_ Verses of the Tranquil _down.

"I don't _agree_ with it," Chandler rationalized, "but I warned him. I did. Again and _again_. It was bound to happen. I told him Meredith would make him tranquil. '_Don't do this, Maddox_. _Stop it_.'"

"You took a leaf from Cullen's book?" Samson remarked.

"It is not a vice to be like him," Chandler said, "Look at where he's gotten. I admit… saying 'I told you so' to wanker Maddox's face didn't give me the rush I was hoping for."

"Tranquil are like that."

Samson peered at the ocean and placed the book upside down so the title couldn't be read, "Maddox _did_ listen, but Phillipa made him happier than following rules."

"He was a freaking idiot, that's why," the Templar said, sounding exasperated now, "but a fun idiot, the only acceptable kind of stupid. Like I said, he had it coming."

The scoundrel peered at Chandler. He appeared to be displaying regret, as his eyebrows were twisted upwards in a crooked way, wanting to force something they were not used to doing. Maddox was annoying at times, no doubt about it, but he wasn't the malicious jerk you wanted to cut into pieces. Maybe Chandler and Samson could agree on that.

"The two of them should have run away." Chandler mused, swatting a fly from his forehead, "If I could do it all again I'd let them… destroyed the phylactery."

Samson almost dropped his fishing rod into the ocean from surprise. In the Circle Chandler always seemed so determined to be distant from others. Perhaps what happened with Maddox had affected more than just Samson and his friends.

"If enough Templars worked together, I think the lovebirds would have gotten away with it." Chandler peered at Samson briefly. "But reflection wouldn't be what it is without something shitty to precede it."

_Reflection_…. So that's what had inspired the change in attitude.

_He's a bit late. _

What was more intriguing was the notion of Templars banding together to achieve a goal. Samson had never thought of this while passing letters. It would have been far easier to get caught this way, though perhaps this was how, with time and perseverance, the Circle might change. One only needed enough people to rebel. He knew he would be one of them, as he wanted to redeem himself for his mistakes too.

"You could still help Phillipa and Maddox get out," Samson pointed out, suddenly inspired, like the night he realized Templars were just as much prisoners as the mages.

Chandler shrugged, "They don't make each other happy anymore. No point, is there?"

"It isn't too late," Samson urged, "Even if it's not them, if something like it happens…."

"Something to think about," Chandler said, picking at some stubble.

"Did _I_ have it coming then?" Samson wondered, for once interested in the Templar's opinion.

"Hmmm..." The Templar sighed, "The whole thing was stupid. Maddox was stupid. Phillipa was stupid. If you hadn't orchestrated it, someone else would have. Maddox would have found _somebody_. Blast. If he annoyed me enough maybe I would have given in." He eyed Samson with understanding, a rare sight. "It wasn't your fault. I think Meredith wanted to feel on top again. Maddox outsmarted her long enough to make one of the Gallows best Templars break her chastity vow. That is an expression of power, intentional or not, and Meredith hates that. Meredith _missed_ something."

Samson was inclined to agree, and he recalled his last conversation with Meredith in the Gallows.

"I didn't know they'd done it," he admitted, bewildered.

Chandler laughed and shook his head, "_No one_ did, but I suspected _something_. One day, Maddox went very quiet…. I thought, 'What brilliant fuck got him to shut up? I need their advice' – Maker, he had such a mouth on him."

"Probably used all his energy to zip his mouth shut," Samson concluded, not sure whether to feel happy or sad, "He was a bloody great show off."

Chandler peered over the ocean as Samson's fishing rod suddenly tugged.

"Shit!" Samson got to his feet to reel it in, "Yeah?"

Chandler waited until Samson had ripped the fish off the hook, wacked it on the pavement and chucked it in the bucket before continuing.

"I don't think it was just because of Meredith." Chandler said, "You brag when you fuck somebody, not when you make love."

"Really?"

Samson didn't know what to think of this, not being convinced he understood what love was. Given the stress it appeared to cause others, he wasn't sure he wanted to know about it either.

"_I_ don't get it, so that must be it," Chandler said.

Samson picked out bait from his bucket, stuck it on the hook and flung out the sinker. It was less intimidating to ask through a second person.

"How is Phillipa?"

"It's like she's possessed, blaming herself for everything… like an idiot."

"But she's wrong."

"Yeah, that line doesn't work, mate," Chandler said, "even when you say it nicely."

"You've been trying to make it up to her or something?" Samson wondered. The red-head was one of the most unsociable, disagreeable Templars around. He always seemed annoyed about something or at somebody. This change of heart was, again, uncharacteristic.

"_Trying_," he said, "not succeeding. The First Enchanter doesn't think Maddox should have been treated so harshly considering how impeccable Phillipa's record was, even if they were in the wrong. Maddox was apparently less a twat when they were sending letters. She got her number of charges reduced the other day. We're thinking of getting her transferred."

"She's going to be sent away?" Samson was alarmed by this, "and who's 'we'?"

"It is only a matter of time until Phillipa starts abandoning her work duties, and none of us want Meredith madder."

"Who's '_we'_?" Samson repeated, suddenly feeling terrible for the damage the letter ordeal had caused.

"Zoe told me to speak to Orsino," Chandler said, to which Samson's heart sank.

"It's hard to picture you _helping_ Phillipa."

"We had to do something," he said, "she is getting too miserable too fast to gather others to contest Meredith's decisions."

That could be the reality for Phillipa, though it didn't seem worth giving up hope altogether. Before he could pursue the matter further, a concern rose. He wasn't sure how much information he wanted to go digging for, especially if it was something he didn't want to know – like whether Chandler was motivated to help Phillipa for the same initial reason he had.

"What about Cullen?" Samson probed, "Is he helping too?"

"No."

Rage flooded Samson. Sure, Cullen had not been supportive of the letter exchanges. But – Maker help him – at the very least, Cullen could show some sympathy for the fact the situation had turned to shit, in the same way Chandler was doing so now.

"What has he been doing then?" Samson growled.

"He _tries_ to be nice," Chandler said, "he makes conversation, smiles, is polite, but he doesn't have the patience or the time. He made it very clear to Phillipa that if she wasn't going to snap out of it he would be Knight Captain instead."

"It's not a competition."

"Cullen doesn't see it that way," Chandler said, "He _wanted_ Phillipa to be Knight Captain. Not him. He really tried to cheer her up, but it wasn't working. So he gave up. Fast. Cullen didn't want to see anyone _incompetent_ take the place. Meredith agreed."

"Twat."

Chandler shrugged, "That's just Rutherford."

Being ambitious at the sake of neglecting the feelings of others made someone an ass in Samson's mind – and sucking up to Meredith wasn't judicious. Phillipa had always been on the same level as Cullen. If _she_ had sunk below Cullen's 'standards', something in him must have changed.

"If Cullen sees _Phillipa_ as incompetent, I wonder what he thinks of me!" Samson spat, nearly snapping the fishing rod as an expression of his wrath, but Chandler gave him a brief tap on the arm.

"Mate," the Templar hesitated, looking uneasy, "you can't really think he respects you after all this?"

"What?!"

Unable to register the words in his mind, he stared at Chandler indignant.

Chandler seemed detached, "You didn't listen to his advice. He's pretty mad. Mad at Phillipa too, but don't tell her I said that."

Samson was astounded. Cullen had never given Samson any advice beyond the letter idea was a bad one. That wasn't news. Passing letters hadn't been a _smart_ idea, but it was the right one. It had made Phillipa and Maddox happy for a time… in a messed up way it had gotten him closer to Zoe at the very end of it. The remorse only combined with his petulance to brew a storm.

"He's my brother," Samson yelled, "Fellow Templars forgive each other!"

"Yeah, but you're not a Templar anymore," Chandler said blankly.

_Like that means anything_

"That shouldn't matter!"

"Samson, calm down."

Samson put the fishing rod down and kept it in place with his boot, "Why should I?"

"Cullen likes you as much as he likes anybody," the Templar clarified, "but he doesn't respect your choices."

"Choices…" Samson scoffed, "I helped Maddox and Phillipa. That's not bad!"

"Yeah, but Cullen's got a stick up his ass. You know that."

Samson sighed. Cullen was strict about the rules, but he didn't disrespect others for it, just keep a distance. Maybe Meredith had shoved that stick even further up his hindquarters.

"What about Zoe?"

"Huh?"

"_Zoe_," Samson repeated, "is she being a two faced cunt like Cullen is?"

Who cares that he'd vowed to keep a distance, he wanted answers. "Samson, mate," Chandler put a hand on Samson's shoulder, "she practically wants to bear your children."

"Eh?" Samson's face went blank. "As if."

"Just trying to make a point of how crazy you'd be to think she hates you."

Obviously, Zoe was worried about him, but that was all.

"You're the one exaggerating."

The Templar chuckled, "I heard what you two did…"

"Like that means anything," Samson shot back, feeling more defensive. He'd gathered that Zoe was only fulfilling some urge. The entire instance was impulsive. Sex was _reckless_. He stopped himself from asking if Zoe had confided to this guy, or if the tale had spread.

"She still feels bad for hardly talking to you up until now, even after your response," Chandler continued, ignoring Samson's reaction, "Phillipa and I think she's in a dandy little place called denial."

That was impossible. Zoe couldn't _get_ in denial. She was a genuine, intelligent person, and she would never think a silly fool such as Samson was worth all that effort.

Unbidden, vitriol seared to the marrow of his bones and produced a viscid acid. He hated not talking to Zoe, no matter how good the reason, and this intensified that feeling. This time his mind refused to fight against the self-condemnation. He had argued against Meredith about his mediocrity, and promised Captain Ewald and Nathara that he would break free of indecisiveness, but his flaws couldn't be argued about. The way he was right now, at times hurting people for coin because he simply had not figured out what was the better option, they were right about him, and those failings were sordid indeed.

"You're wrong." Samson shot back, far more aggressively than he intended, "she can't feel that way. I'm disgusting."

"Don't ask me to understand a woman," Chandler countered.

"Knock some sense into her then!" Samson burst out, "she should be thinking about somebody else."

"I think she knows that, mate," Chandler said, "That's_ why_ she's in denial."

These words made an impact. Samson exhaled slowly, trying to calm himself. When Samson used to think about being with Zoe, he honestly never believed it was possible. He knew if Chandler had said this to him in the Circle, he wouldn't be resisting. The idea of having his feelings reciprocated would be a relief. Maybe he'd even feel jubilant, before the embarrassment sank in that he had no idea how to behave in a relationship. It didn't help that there was never any discussion about 'relationships' in the Circle, between _anyone_. It wasn't simple to pursue one, even with the best of intentions.

He'd explained it the last he spoke to her – that she didn't deserve him. His life was too much of an unpredictable mess. Better choices were out there for Zoe. Even if they had never slept together, Samson would still be keeping her at a distance right now.

"Tell her I don't care about her," Samson muttered, somewhere between talking to himself and Chandler, "Tell her I hate her. Make her get over it!"

"Come on." Chandler stretched out his legs, "That won't end well."

The bastard was right. If Chandler did pass that message, it would contradict what he told Zoe recently. Maybe there was a more sensible way to do this.

_Denial._ He tossed the word around in his head. That implied she was hiding her feelings from herself, like this "problem" might not even be a problem at all. Folk could suppress all sort of rubbish to themselves for years. Some stayed in denial forever. Why would she be any different? No action needed to be taken, except do what was necessary to keep her there, forever. They were friends, after all. That's what _she_ said.

"If the topic ever comes up," Samson said, "for some reason, she is in denial like you said. By some miracle, if you are right, tell her…"

He had never once considered marriage. It never appealed to him as it did to others. There was no glory in making a vow like that. To him, it was as clever as hurling himself off a cliff.

"I will always be her friend," he said, finally, "but I am not capable, nor do I think we should be, anything else.…urgh… I can't be fathering her fucking children. If that's a fantasy of hers, shatter it, tear it apart until there is dust, and tell her I'm sorry."

Feeling his face burn, Samson peered on the horizon again, where the edges of the harbour and the Gallows could be seen as a mere pin prick in the distance. This was how far apart they were. By writing to one another, their story was not far removed from Phillipa and Maddox. They were two beings that would fall head over heels and then into the mud. Samson wouldn't let it happen twice.

The Templar seemed stunned by the speech.

"By Andraste's sword…" he swore, leaving silence for a number of moments, "You _do_ care about her."

_Of course I do,_ Samson thought indignantly. Zoe might be drifting away, but she was his friend, and he had to stop her from becoming stupid.

"Yeah if it comes up I'll let her know," Chandler said, "but… why crush her? _You_ were the one who wanted to fuck her."

Samson sighed, "That doesn't mean it's a good idea to accept her affections with open arms. She said we should just be friends."

"What if she asks you?"

He shrugged. "She won't."

"Your funeral, mate," Chandler clapped Samson on the shoulder, rose to his feet, wiped the dirt from his armour and said, "I'll keep an eye on your butterfly for you."

"I appreciated this chat. Even if Cullen is a self-righteous bastard, at least Phillipa is in good company."

He would never mention Zoe was lucky to have Chandler, but Samson could admit it for Phillipa.

The clunking of metal matched the beating of Samson's heart as anger boiled beneath his skin again. Maddox was the only one who called Zoe a butterfly. That was his - _their_ joke. How the hell… Maddox had told the bastard about it!

Samson waited until Chandler left before growling the mage's name in outrage. Samson had changed, Phillipa was in a rut, Zoe might be confused, Cullen was an ass, but Chandler had become a half decent person. If the Maker was making a joke, it was terrible.

An unwelcome feeling of being poured down the sink pulled at him, like an asphyxiating toxin. By the Blight, he wanted to go home. No. The lyrium was there. He'd swallow it all if he went there. Maker, he wanted it now!

_I'll take lyrium, go back to the Gallows and punch Cullen in the face. _

Samson stood to his feet, clenching the rod with a fist as his mind exploded in an argument only matched by Meredith and the First Enchanter.

_Faith wouldn't be happy if you just took it._

_I'll break her face then!_

_Zoe wouldn't be pleased either. _

_I don't care about Zoe! I'll take the lyrium and tell Faith to get over it!_

_That won't fix anything. _

_I don't care! _

_You don't?  
I'm not a Templar anymore. It doesn't matter what I do. Everyone's just going to hate me anyway. _

_Zoe doesn't hate you. _

_Zoe is stupid! _

Samson sighed and peered down at the bucket. This was enough fishing for one day. Battling with himself was too much work. Right now he wanted to give in, like Phillipa, like Maddox... like how Cullen had lost faith in him.

He stormed back to Darktown as fast as he could go, not paying attention to those around him.

* * *

Samson stopped near Faith's house to catch his breath, checking his pockets frantically. Good, the keys were still there. In the chaos, he caught eyes with the cat-like ones of a young lady with shoulder length orange hair, who might have been on the way to leave. She, strangely enough, smiled like she knew him in an intimate way. "Hello, treasure."

"Hi," Samson said blankly, clueless as to how to react. The lure of lyrium was still pulling at his body like a hex, making him take another step to the door against his will.

"It's surprising to see you." The woman near marched toward him, fearless, "But that's charming. You weren't just some bum who'd picked Faith's house to snooze in front of by accident."

The man put the bucket down, wishing he'd brought a weapon. He didn't have a blasted clue who this lady was, but she recognized him, "You know Faith?"

The lady laughed, "Oh, do I know Faith? Interesting question. Does anyone know her?"

Now closer, she raised herself on her toes and observed Samson carefully. "I believe you," he muttered, recoiling.

"It's Lilley," she said, outstretching a hand.

The man didn't shake it, not wanting to meet another Meeran to make life complicated, "Do you want something from me?"

"No," Lilley said pointedly.

"You must want something."

"Also no." She grinned. "I just like meeting Faith's friends. Give my opinion or two… like a sister."

"Right." Despite the reassurance, Samson didn't feel comforted. "Can I help you?"

"I find the question is better phrased the other way around,'" Lilley proposed.

"Samson."

"_Samson_," the lady repeated, peering at Faith's house, "Cute."

"To very few," he agreed, reluctantly.

Lilley checked Samson up and down. "I didn't mean to spy. My curiosity got the better of me. It's been a long time since Faith has housed – well, more than her own pretty ass."

Samson turned his head and torso to follow the woman's gaze as she paced around him. She was dressed in leather armour and probably knew how to fight. Clearly, she was someone not worth messing with.

"You live around here?" Samson asked.

Lilley tossed her hair back indignantly, "You mean Faith hasn't mentioned me?"

"She doesn't mention many people."

"I am offended." Though the woman didn't sound like she cared. "Who does she talk about then?"

"A mage."

"That lovely thing?" Lilley's eyebrows jumped subtly, "True, but he left her, didn't he?"

Samson didn't know enough about the situation to comment. He shrugged.

"How do you know them?"

"How about we chat some more… somewhere else?" Lilley suggested.

"Is that somewhere here?" Samson wondered. No matter how she knew Faith… Lilley's behaviour was suspicious. Even if Samson wanted lyrium, he also wanted as much information about Faith as he could.

Lilley gave a nearly uncatchable smile and ran a single finger down Samson's arm, "Drop your toys off, and we can stay inside Faith's house if you're so worried. I'll be very courteous."

Unable to resist the offer, knowing he wouldn't have to meet Meeran for a few hours anyway, Samson stepped backwards, keeping an eye on Lilley as he unlocked the door and she entered after him. This was a familiar space, and he intended to keep her at an arm's length.

"Been in Kirkwall long?" Samson asked, kicking the door shut.

"Long enough. Yourself?"

"Too long."

Their voices slightly echoed in the empty house, darkening as sunset peeked through the gaps in the curtains. The former Templar wondered if Lilley had gotten her elusive way of speaking from Faith, or if it was the other way around.

Samson sat down on the ground, to keep her away from everything, and Lilley followed.

"You don't have tea?"

"I'm not making you anything," Samson said, firmly.

"Rude," Lilley said simply, "Grog then?"

Samson shrugged. He wanted lyrium, but he didn't think Faith would be happy if he took it. "There's cake."

"Cake?" Lilley tapped her foot impatiently, "It's that time of year again."

Samson didn't answer. She could be playing him. A long silence paused where they stared each other.

He was tempted to make tea for her after all, but who knew what this woman could do when his back was turned.

"So…" he began, slowly.

"You need me to tell you what to do?" Lilley laughed, "You're a _real_ treasure. Come on."

"You know what I invited you in for," Samson said wearily.

The woman seemed delighted. She threaded her fingers together and leaned forward interested.

"But there's so much to tell," she said, "Where do I start?"

"How do you fit into it?"

Lilley smiled and put her hair behind an ear, "We go way back, me and her, before she worked for the toad, before the magic man, even."

_Meeran… Ewan…_ Samson ticked off persons in his head.

"You don't care what questions I ask?"

"Of course not. I welcome it," Lilley said, "I won't get in a state. I am a grown lady."

She gently lifted her chest up to make a point.

"Have you ever lived with her?"

"Pfff!" Lilley chuckled, "Of course not. What a nightmare she'd be to live with."

"Have the two of you….um…"

Samson couldn't decide if he wanted to say make out, tumbled about, or some other derivative.

"Adorable." Lilley smiled and moved closer to Samson. "You want to know if I've been very bad?"

"Maybe," Samson nodded slowly, with the tone that implied a resound 'yes'. This stranger was perverse – if he had to guess, having a filthy mind was shaping up to be a criteria for all Faith's friends. Before he could stop her, Lilley leaned closer and laid her fingers on Samson's jawline, gently enough for it to be… distracting, nearly enough for him to ignore the lyrium cravings. Maybe it was lucky she'd appeared. He needed a decent distraction, and Faith wasn't around to provide it.

"Of course," she purred, tracing his stubble with one of her fingers, "Do you want to know the details? I remember it well. I could tell you _everything_."

Samson started to shake. This conversation had a very sudden change of tone, and he couldn't deny its power. He thought he only mouthed the answer, his lips formed the word 'no' but it came out as an audible, "Please."

… Making him regret what was to follow.

The story wasn't actually very interesting, but it was Lilley's voice that Samson found himself attracted to.

"Where does a lady go when her Daddy disowns her?" the woman said, "Community service at the Chantry. It was boring. So dull, and the people were so bothersome, but I did it anyway. I was well behaved. I got food and a safe place to sleep. I looked for jobs during the day, unsuccessfully. Many didn't like me just on association. Kirkwall is too small a place."

Her eyes were creepy, her posture was predatory, but he could forget about the fact he was getting objectified by trying to imagine the visuals in great detail, and get distracted from his own wants.

"I bumped into Faith while sweeping the floor. She had been asked to mop. Those eyes were like lightning. Yes. I liked her dress too."

Samson suddenly wondered in what universe Faith wore an ordinary dress. "She looked pretty in it?"

"Dull," Lilley said, "But cute - I'll be generous." She moved her hands over her body as she explained the details of the dress, "Lacy white on the top, long sleeves, dark brown around the waist… gold for the lower part. Not much different to what everyone else was wearing."

Did Faith still have this dress somewhere?

"There were a handful of us staying there, but she was special. We connected quickly, as though we were supposed to be friends. She told me about how loyal she still felt to that silly Tranquil, the Circle, the lyrium withdrawal… every day, she told me something new."

Already, it seemed like Lilley knew a lot more about Faith than Samson did. The lady started tracing her fingers down Samson's arms, and he shuddered. This was weird, but he didn't want it to stop… anything to make the craving go, even letting himself be subjugated to a stupid woman's story.

"I hated the Chantry but I liked _her_," she continued, amused, "That's why, after a night where we drank so much, soo much, we went back to her house and…"

"Wait a second," Samson interrupted.

"You're getting bored?" Lilley wondered, brushing Samson slowly on his neck with her nose. Even though he had positioned himself with the intention to move away, it was just too damn side tracking.

"_Her_ house?" he asked, "Neither of you had jobs."

"Shhh…" Lilley pressed her fingers to Samson's lips briefly. "Her familyhouse, treasure."

That must be incorrect. Faith's house was here.

"How long had you known each other at this time of this story?" Samson pushed Lilley's hand away.

"Long enough."

"Hah…" the scoundrel forced himself to peer into Lilley's grey eyes, "Stop throwing up garbage and tell me the truth."

"I'm just skipping to the good part," the woman said with a hint of a smile.

"_That_ is what worries me," Samson remarked, trying to push Lilley off, but she did not back down so easily. Granted, he was weak too, fragile in the mind, and wasn't pushing very hard. The moment Lilley left, he would have lyrium cravings to deal with, which was something he'd rather avoid.

"We were adorable together, her and I. In the bed in the dark - so gentle… kisses… all over the place… she was so timid back then." She said absently, pushing Samson further onto the floor, which he obliged, "_I_ was the one who made her noisy."

Lilley ran her hands down Samson's chest and straddled him, sounding extremely proud of herself. He wasn't sure whether to believe her or not, but he supposed it made sense that Faith hadn't always been so confident expressing herself in the sack. Either way, having a woman running her hands on him helped him forget the conversation from the Docks.

Lilley bent down and snarled into Samson's ear, "She told me she needed me, with more desperation than you can imagine… but I can help imitate. Such a naughty Chantry girl, and you know how she said my name?" Samson felt his mouth go dry. No doubt, Lilley would make this sound awful, but he was too enthralled in the imagery to say no, "_Lilley_, quiet first, very quiet, but I have my ways. I made her say it louder. _Lilley_… still too quiet. I wanted her voice to ring in the whole house. I didn't give up until she did. And it was so very worth it. The memories are close to my pale heart."

The former Templar tried to focus on breathing deeply, coming up with his own mental representation of the two girls interwoven so tightly it was impossible to tell who was who. What did Faith look like at that time? Did she behave the same? Did she kiss and touch the same? He was stuck in his mind for a while, unable to think clearly, until the woman settled.

"Samson…" Lilley said finally, running her hands down his waist.

"Lilley," Samson replied mockingly.

"I miss her. I do. I hated the magic man." Lilley mused, her eyes gleaming with tears, "Wouldn't you too, if you were me… if she just shut you out completely?"

Samson was too bewitched by her expression, unable to decide if the sadness was an act or legitimate.

"I would," he admitted, and he peered up at the ceiling so he wouldn't have to see Lilley's reaction, "but I also know Faith wouldn't shut someone out without a good reason."

"So cruel." She wiped a tear from her eye. "I don't know what I did wrong. I really don't. She kept so many secrets…. about all the important things. Does she do that to you?"

Not wanting to say that Lilley was half right, Samson said, "Not intentionally."

"Tragic," Lilley said, and she went still, "Can I stay here a little longer? With you. I feel so terribly lonely."

Samson sighed. She wasn't exactly doing anything wrong, "A little longer."

He couldn't decide if he wanted her to bolt, or stay. Her story must have elements of truth. She seemed to have a good grasp of Faith's character. Lilley lowered herself down onto him and wrapped her arms to his torso, resting her head to one side.

"I can hear it beating," she said, bewildered.

Closing his eyes, Samson listened, and realized he could hear his heart beating too. "The family house isn't this one?"

"No," Lilley said, "It's where I live, at the other end of Darktown – but it's nothing too drastic. Faith let me keep it."

Samson thought his heart stopped, and they hardly spoke for the time that remained. The girls had shared a drunken passionate night in that place. It wasn't exactly every day a person gave another an entire house.

Not sure he wanted to know what had inspired Faith's decision to do that, so he didn't ask.

The visit was short, but it was a relief to see her go. Samson laid on the floor for a time, thinking of Lilley and Faith just to push away the cravings, feeling dirty, guilty and weak for letting her climb all over him, completely uncalled for – and what opinion did she have of Samson now? Going over the story, Samson realized it hadn't been much about anything. He knew how they met, that Faith had both shut Lilley out and given her a house, and nothing else. The time frame was unclear as well. None of it made any sense.

_She has a problem,_ Samson decided, although he failed to figure out what the stranger's problem was until he emptied his pockets before changing into his armour.

No coin… no keys… they weren't on the floor.

Lilley had stolen them.

* * *

_Author's Notes_: Many thanks to Flaminea as always. Fun question - what do you think is the correct plural of Tranquil? :-D


	19. Sollicitus - Worry

"Blasted slippery…" Samson couldn't roll insults off his tongue fast enough, "I'll steal it back. Bitch. Those were _my_ keys."

They may have belonged to someone else once, but Maker, it didn't matter now. Faith had given them to _him_.

Groaning aloud, he wondered, _why didn't I ask about the mage instead?_

Once he locked the door from the inside and left he wouldn't be able to re-enter until Faith came back. Other options left Lilley the chance to rob the place. Samson got dressed into his armour, peering at the larder as he did so. Lyrium. That would calm him down. It would help. Even _Lilley_ would help. That was the worst thought of all.

As he braced the open air, his steps were uneven, almost shaking.

_Maker, I need it._

_No. You don't. _

While trying to pick the perfect candidate to help him, he waited outside for longer than he should have, until he realized he just had to start somewhere. At random, he approached a man whose face was completely covered by a silver helmet.

"Hey there," Samson began, and then more politely, "Pardon me, sir."

"I don't have coin," the man grumbled, the typical response in Kirkwall's poverty stricken district.

"I don't need it," Samson said, although it was a lie, "A woman stole my coin and house keys. Can you alert the guards? I don't want her to nick the rest of it while I'm gone."

That caught the man's attention. He turned his neck, awkward, and narrowed what Samson could see of his eyes. "Is that the only information you've got?"

The former Templar went on to describe exactly where he thought Lilley's house was, her name and a description of her appearance, trying not to describe her as ugly out of spite. His name came last.

"Some of the Guards know me," he finished, amazed he hadn't started with this fact. Technically he wasn't permitted to communicate with any Guards while working with the Iron but stuff it. This was urgent.

"Thieves. Can't trust 'em," The man concluded, placing hands in his pockets,

"Did I see ya fishing earlier, speaking with a Templar?"

Samson was startled anyone took notice of him, "You've got good eyesight. Who are you?"

"Reiner. I work at the Docks," said the man, "What will you give me in return for tipping off the Guard?"

"Depends how far away they are," Samson mumbled, _or what they're up to_, "I'll chuck you some coin once I get more. Where in the Docks can I find you?"

"You'll be here when I get back?" Reiner checked, "Meet me in the Eastern Warehouse District tomorrow morning."

"Yeah. You know where to find good business." Samson praised him, "Cheers, Reiner."

Reiner gave a nod of acknowledgement and wandered off in the other direction. Samson sat down, and waited far longer than he would have liked, as his thoughts raced of lyrium, Lilley, lyrium, Faith, Meeran and everything in between. Then he went over the list again and it infinitely circled until he was convinced his brain was broken.

_At least I don't have to deal with withdrawals this time around_, he acknowledged, feeling slightly happier, _besides the scummy cravings. Where'd they come from anyhow? _

Reiner returned with a Guard-Nabil, he guessed-once the sun was setting and Samson was starving. Slowly, he stood but his legs were numb.

"It _is_ you, Headache," the Guard said, raising his eyebrows, "I left Brennan to stay around where her house is but so far looks like the girl ran for it."  
Samson cringed at the mention of his nickname, "I won't lie. I'm disappointed."

A severe understatement since he was downtrodden enough to kick something.

"She can't stay out forever," Nabil assured him, "I didn't realize you had a house."

"Tomorrow," Reiner interjected, peering at Samson, quickly evading the scene, although the other two were still in conversation.

"It's not _my_ house," Samson protested.

"Uh huh," Nabil scratched his nose in a way that implied Samson was up to something.

"I'm staying there for now. Found someone with a quarter of a soul to take me in," he explained.

Nabil laughed, "It only takes a quarter of one? Maker. Your standards are pretty low."

"At least I have standards," Samson pointed out.

"I'll give you that one," Nabil said, "What have you done the whole freaking day? Getting someone else's rubbish stolen-"

"Fishing," he replied, a good enough a cover as any.

The Guardsman found this very amusing, as he tried to suppress a smirk, "Got it. I'll stick around here. Between Brennan and I, we'll get Thieving Lilley. If it were me, I'd fix up the door."

Samson groaned and walked away, "That depends…" he looked over his shoulder at the Guard, "on what the misses thinks."

And he chuckled to himself at the look of confusion on Nabil's face.

* * *

Samson had to hurry. The sun was almost down and that meant Meeran would be waiting for him in Lowtown. He couldn't get distracted. Upon entering the Blooming Rose, Samson was careful to avoid the stares of Guards or Templars. It was more crowded than usual, and he was only slightly surprised that Madame Lusine was nowhere to be found. Instead, he saw a lady who liked purple too much. To match her lilac eyes, she seemed to have coloured her lips and eyelids violet. Maybe she'd be Lusine fifteen years younger.

"Good evening, ser," she said, cocking her head to the side, "Would you like to see one of our wonderful women and men?"

Her tone had an undercurrent of sarcasm.

"Can you get Faith? Err… tall one, blue eyes." Samson hurried, "It's an emergency. Someone stole her spare key."

"Ah." The woman flicked her scorching red hair, "You're her…?"

"I'm somebody… reasonably important."

"I see, Ser Reasonably Important," she teased, stepping away, "I'll see if I can find her."

Faith appeared very fast, heels clattering like hooves as she did.

"Did you lose the key?" she queried, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't be thick." Samson was equally mistrusting. "I met a certain… girlfriend… who owns another house of yours."

Samson wasn't sure what he was expecting, but it wasn't the groan of exasperation that exited Faith's mouth. "Lilley has the keys."

"What about the door?"

Faith looked disapproving, "Locks and keys are expensive."

It was odd. She almost sounded like she didn't want to replace it.

"I tipped off the Guard, so they're onto her," Samson resisted adding one didn't get locked up long for pick pocketing, "But now I'm a bum on the street again."

The voice from earlier echoed, "Faith! Your customer wants you back."

Faith stamped her foot and shouted back through the corridor, "Give him a refund!"

"What?" the woman gasped, "Why is it _my_ job to explain to your customer?"

"And my apologies!" Faith yelled, hardly moving from where she stood, like saying sorry was not on her mind, "I'm having a break."

"Mistress, I wouldn't do that if I were you," a busty waitress interjected from a couple of meters away, "We were told to wait a few more hours."

"Five minutes, Vivika," Faith pressed.

Samson wondered why Faith suddenly wanted a break. Couldn't she just tell him what to do about the door? That was the most pressing issue. It didn't seem his opinion mattered… like usual.

The waitress sighed, "Hurry it up, honey, while Lusine is busy."

Before Samson could ask, Faith dragged him by the arm back into a room to the far left. By the bags scattered on the carpet, a kettle of tea, mugs half-drunk and books that had coffee stains on them, this must be the staff room.

Faith's legs shuddered as she sat down on a bench-clearly not all movements were flawless again for her yet-and pulled Samson down next to her. His heart pounded from the sheer hastiness of it. Maybe this rushing was normal for Blooming Rose girls.

"Lilley's was _never_ my girlfriend," Faith seethed, acerbic, "And did you tell Meeran you were not going to work?"

"Five minutes," Samson repeated, glaring at her, "but before we get onto Lilley… Meeran wants to talk to you."

Since Samson was probably going to take a while to get to Meeran, he needed a good reason for being caught up. Having Faith's word would make his boss happy, and if not, maybe it wasn't worth staying with the Red Iron anyway.

She didn't react as if he'd said anything.

"He's threatening to not give me work," he continued, hoping this would help. When the silence was too much to deal with, he added, "He isn't happy."

"That shit eater…" Faith picked absently at her nails. "I thought the prick would have gotten over me by now – found a younger female to bother."

"What does he want?"

"To hurt me," she said, "but he wouldn't kill me, at any rate."

Meeran got off on the worst kinds of horrors. Samson nodded to show he understood. "Are there any other psychos I should know about in this city that have a history with you… before I get my leg chopped off or something?"

"I… no," Faith said slowly, lifting some of her hair off her neck.

"You didn't think it was important to mention your girlfriend?"

The woman chipped one of her fingernails in hitting it against the bench. The taunt worked. The concept of 'girlfriends' and relationships unsettled her. Somehow, he liked knowing he could push her buttons. It was nice to know he was beginning to learn Faith's triggers. It was one step closer to being able to predict her, and therefore know how to avoid making her angry.

"Slay Lilley. I'm not _hers_ or whatever she said." The woman, distressed, looked down at the ground, as if she had a sudden head cold, "Kill Andraste over again."

He waited for her to say something, but the silence kept on going.

"Why'd you bring me in here? We're wasting time sitting here doing nothing, when all we need right now is for you to go home and fix the door," Samson said.

The blue of her eyes looked lethal, and for a moment he thought that would be the extent of her answer. "Lilley slipped my mind. I apologize," she said, stiffly, "I do _well_ thinking and remembering until others come into my life."

The words struck him like a blow to the head, concussing him. It was sore, and it reminded him he was vulnerable.

"_Others_," Samson repeated, "Like me?"

"Yes," Faith said bluntly. Resentment rang in her tone; as though she'd used everything she had to say one word.

"How quaint," Samson utilized sarcasm, although he did not he understand why he was so reactive. Every emotion in existence, he felt right now. "I'm not at fault for your mixed up head. You're the one who can drink lyrium anytime you want. You fuck people hours a day so you can 'think properly'. Your mind must be a fortress."

A few days ago, he would have said something different, but Maker, he didn't know exactly what. Samson was jealous. _He_ wanted to drink lyrium all the time, just to make his mind shut up and not get distracted by a whirlpool of thought and _feeling_. The craving had a roar that could make armies quiver.

"I _wish_ it was a stronghold," Faith said, her lopsided features evening, "Though yes, lyrium creates a thicker fog to stride through."

"Constantly reaching for or running from the song?"

"Not only the song," Faith said stiffly. "I'm not accustomed to tossing my thoughts and feelings around like a flower girl. Yet women – and your average man declare that _normal_. I hear them giggle; I hear them gush over their husbands and wives, and children, exhibiting themselves to the world. I call it stupidity," she glanced uncertainly at him, "_You_–worrying about you–abolish the remaining mental clarity I have."

There she went again, her emotions changed so fast during the course of a conversation. He felt as though he'd spoken to her for hours already from how exhausted he felt, though their first night was best not repeated. Her words were somewhat conducive. "You… are worried about me?"

His voice was quiet, decorous. She froze, as if spotted by an adversary. "Is that important, Chantry worshipper?"

Samson crossed his arms. "It's better than you not giving a toss, or blaming me for everything."

Reluctant to maintain eye contact, after a pause she replied, softly, "I don't… toss."

"Huh?"

A rapt knock came from the other side of the door, "Faith, honey. Time."

That was Vivika. It was too soon. That didn't feel like five minutes, and they hadn't even figured out what to do about the door, but Samson was close to speechless.

"Be right there," she assured the waitress.

"And I tell Meeran…?" he insinuated, unable to believe they'd gotten so side tracked.

Faith sighed, "I'll talk to him. Fuck -just say what he wants, no matter how depraved and rotten it is, make him think he's got the upper hand. I'll think of something."

Watching Faith find her center of gravity, Samson stood, and… held out his arm like Faith had done to him in Darktown.

_She doesn't deserve more crap from me,_ he decided.

With a cautious glance, Faith reluctantly grasped it and pushed against him to stand. She was doing well not needing her walking stick. Before he let her go back out in the noise, he muttered, "Are you cranky at me?"

"Unlikely," Faith stated, laconically, "Don't rot while I'm gone."

She weaved through the crowd, ignoring some of the admiring glances from the men in line. The queue out the front of the Rose had suddenly reappeared, and the crimson haired woman from before was looking steely eyed, and didn't look at him.

Samson raised his voice, "You're the only one rotting me, princess."

There was no indication if she heard or not, but he hoped she had. It was part of the way to a compliment, anyway.

The sun was well and truly out of sight, and there was no time to enjoy the crisp air. What had he gained from that conversation? Lilley had never been Faith's girlfriend. Considering the vagueness of her definitions… that didn't mean much.

"Piss on it," Samson muttered to himself, heading toward Lowtown. The chances of finding Meeran were slim. Lateness meant no coin. Still, he had to check just in case.

* * *

"Ah, shit."

Weaving through the many Hanged Man patrons, a multitude of decisions sprawled out in his mind. He needed coin to meet Reiner tomorrow. He couldn't get into Faith's house unless he broke open the door… and even if the lyrium would be there...

_I don't need it_, he thought to himself immediately.

But his hands were clammy, telling him something else. It wasn't _his_ choice if he wanted lyrium or not. His craving simply was there, a curse that burned into the marrow of his bones and devoured it. How he needed to destroy the cravings, terminate himself and set the city in flames. He found this sentiment and nihilistic impulse disturbing.

_Maker, why didn't I ask when Faith finished work?_

No joy lay in simply waiting so he gravitated to where the most noise was. This turned out to be in the same room as the bard, at a seat a table away from a dwarf with a gigantic crossbow and louder mouth. As he sat, Samson traced the natural lines of the wooden table in front of him, a detail he wouldn't have noticed in withdrawal.

He had nothing better to do than stay here until when Faith usually was home.

"There are few I'd offer a daisy," uttered a gruff voice, one that Samson recognized. A Templar?

Confused, he turned around and spotted well-built man years older, with a beard and wearing nothing special, sitting opposite the loud mouth.

_Ser Thrask? _

There was no doubt. The Templar was playing Wicked Grace with the blond dwarf. He had taken a night stroll, it seemed, dressed in an ordinary tunic and trousers. It was weird, because Thrask respected the Chantry with his whole being, like Phillipa. He didn't seem the _type_ to go out drinking.

Thrask placed a card down, "Your turn, Varric."

"_Metaphorical_ roses, Bright Eyes!" Varric seemed incredulous, taking a swig of a drink, "I'm not talking about _actual_ flowers, Andraste's ass, where do you even find flowers in this overflowing, stink ridden city?"

"What is the purpose of the comparison?" Thrask challenged, "Why am I a Knight of Roses?"

The dwarf chuckled and leaned forward, holding his card up like a grenade, "I'm telling you. Ladies are more likely to flock toward a Knight with a heart as _rosy_ and great as his ego – preferably bigger – but they're all a bunch of grouches who wouldn't know a petal from an insult. I'm trying to compliment you, Bright Eyes."

Samson looked away and peered at the crowd, reminding himself to look out for Meeran. _Bright Eyes_ wasn't much better than Headache. It made him feel calmer.

"Hmm…" Thrask mused, "A Knight of Red Roses…. or Black?"

There was a break in the conversation where the fast paced strumming of the bard silenced the game.

"No!" Varric slapped his hands down on the table, "I was counting on that next lot of coin for a patterned binding!"

Thrask laughed, and his chair creaked, "For a book?"

"A printed chronology of Kirkwall history," the dwarf pretended, "I – alright, I'll be honest with a friend. It's a bunch of stupid shit. Take the most outlandish tale you can think of, and make it worse. _Yes_, you got the picture, now keep going."

The one named Varric recovered from the loss quickly.

"Why, Varric?" the Templar sounded exasperated.

"That's what I like; it's what readers like, so I'll get some dirt under my nails. It gives me an excuse to snoop for stupid stories without seeming unkind."

"You'd pose unkind even if you grew a tidy beard," Thrask pointed out.

"Some–like Bianca–don't care for such human details."

It sounded like the two men finished their drinks in that moment, as they both stamped them down at the same time.

Interested if the changed dynamics between the Templars extended to the Templar sitting near him, Samson briefly peered back, not sure what he was hoping to see. Nothing was different about Thrask's expression. He was as laid back, calm and thoughtful as ever.

They did not share many memories together, but Samson remembered the lad clearer than most. Thrask was a pleasant person to cross in a hall and had an interesting perspective. One particular moment stood out.

"_Samson!" Phillipa waved at him, welcoming as usual, "How are you?"_

_He nodded appreciatively, "Good, thank you." It an afternoon shift change, as many Templars walked purposely through the halls instead of standing. He deliberately avoided Zoe's gaze as she approached Phillipa's side, carrying a stack of textbooks._

"_Are these all the ones you wanted, Phillipa?" Zoe inquired, "Maker. When I said I wanted to improve my arm strength, I didn't mean you should destroy them beyond repair." _

_Not quite looking her in the eye, Samson found how to answer. _

"_Books won't wreck your arms, Zoe," he assured her, "With that hefty weight, you'll look more like a bloke in a week but that's it." _

"_NO!" Zoe protested, "That's not the point of it at all." _

_Nice try… moron, Samson told himself. _

"_She wants to be on par with her brother," Phillipa explained, "They are competing to lift kegs." _

"_Wow," Samson said, distracted with the thought of Zoe doing so, "Try spreading your legs and bending ov… bending at your knees, not leaning over. That's how you lift a keg." _

"_We don't exactly have kegs lying around here," Zoe said, pointedly, but she smiled and said no more. _

"_What is a better choice than books, Samson?" Phillipa said, with a look at Zoe. _

"_Um…." Samson received a mental blank at the worst moment. He hoped the butterfly hadn't noticed the crude comment he'd almost slipped._

_Zoe tilted her head to one side, wordless._

"_Girls, could I help with carrying the books?" Samson said, "You're meant to help your fellow sister, right Phillipa?" _

"_Yes, I can help," Phillipa said, and she smiled, "Zoe, how about you give Samson some of your books? That way he can walk with us." _

"_Uh, no. That's okay," Zoe said, slowly, "I mean… they're not that heavy. I was just complaining for the sake of it." _

"_Hey, I do that a lot too," Samson said, and he realized how dumb that sounded. "But if you girls don't want to share books, I understand. You need the extra training to reach a greater strength level." _

"_Actually," Zoe hesitated, "I think you need the strength training more." Having not looked in Zoe's direction for fear of staring unnecessarily, he was amazed to see her place ten heavy textbooks in his arms which reached up to his chin. _

"_Eh?" Confused, he looked over and saw Zoe had given him every book she had been carrying, and had a satisfied smile on her face. _

_Possibly as demoralized as Samson felt stunned, Phillipa reached forward and grabbed three, "Let me help." _

"_No," Zoe retorted, pushing her away. _

_Unsure of what was happening, Samson chuckled, "So much fighting over me, girls." _

"_It's for your own good," Zoe said, now pushing Phillipa's wrists away. In the chaos, she adjusted one textbook she hadn't been carrying properly, "The adrenaline of watching us wrestle will help your… arms… not die… on the way." _

"_I can cope without adrenaline," Samson replied. With a glance in Zoe's direction he added, "What about you?"_

_Zoe laughed, "Me? Adrenaline… well… I don't know." _

_Phillipa was flabbergasted, "You don't know?" _

"_Do you think that's really true, Phillipa?" Samson addressed the other Templar. _

"_Not at all. Zoe loves excitement," Phillipa responded immediately. _

_Samson grinned, "I thought so," taking a chance, he looked Zoe in the eye, "See, beautiful, I mean – you're a sneak. You're too effervescent to lie about your love for adrenaline or fool anyone." _

_The woman grinned and avoided his eye, "Maybe I want to keep secrets." _

"_About what?" Samson inquired, much more comfortable speaking to her now she wasn't watching him._

_Zoe lifted her head back up and caught his gaze for exactly three seconds (yes, he counted), "Clues and secrets- they're almost the same." She stood side by side with him and knocked the armour over his shoulder. "Maybe you're a good replacement for the books." _

"_I don't think so," Samson said. Phillipa was watching them like they were part of a puppet show, "A keg would flatten you. I wouldn't- but yeah, I'd probably make you pull a muscle or two." _

"_That's your fault for having poor technique, Samson," Zoe said, "Remember, don't bend over… with your back." _

_His mind flooded with imagery, of an unspeakable kind. He wondered why Zoe had switched it so he was the one getting lifted. Samson shook his head, lost all words, and when Phillipa left with a cheery farewell, he still didn't know what to say. In his daze, one of the books, positioned oddly on the pile, slipped onto the floor. _

_In a moment of mortification, he put the books down as instructed and locked eyes with Thrask who was close by. The Templar shook his head with a coy smile and didn't make a comment until Zoe had left. _

"_That trick is friendlier if your hands aren't sodden with nerves," Thrask said. _

"_I meant to drop them," Samson said swiftly, not wanting to embarrass himself any more. _

_Thrask peered at him, understanding, "I did the same once… a long time ago now." He watched the back of Zoe's head, "I wouldn't worry. She took notice." _

"_Yeah," Samson half agreed, "for my butterfingers." _

"_Perchance." The towering man gave a knowing smile, "It is better to gaze hopefully at the unknown than cower away. That's when the demons lash out." _

_Samson was too stuck in thought to answer. _

They were wise words, but he didn't appreciate the compliment back then. He reflected on Zoe's intention for changing his words around. During the conversation his mind had been wandering to unclean places, though he doubted she would be the same-not for him, in any case. It was such a bizarre memory.

Samson felt a tap on the shoulder.

He looked around and watched the back of Thrask's head, the Templar a mountain taller than his drinking companion, about to disappear out of the establishment.

The Templar turned around, in mid conversation with Varric, and appeared to smile a little wider when Samson saw him. It was subtle, but indisputable.

Thrask had acknowledged Samson's existence, and may have even been happy to see him, but then it disappeared.

_Thrask is better than the other idiots. _

"I hate this hole," Samson groaned, slamming his fist on the table.

* * *

He didn't know what time it was when Meeran appeared, but it had taken too long. Samson followed the mercenary leader to his usual room in the back, ignoring the others at the table, his body drained of all feeling.

"You're too late," Meeran said.

"Faith said she would talk to you," Samson told him.

A satisfied smile reached Meeran's face and he linked his fingers together.

"I waited long enough," _fuck you,_ Samson thought, "Want a drink, Raleigh?"

"No," Samson said bluntly, "What am I doing tomorrow? I can't do anything at night."

"Is that so?" Meeran seemed interested, "Have you finally scraped together a social life?"

"Kind of," Samson said, feeling less afraid of Meeran knowing he was useful. In reality, he was going to meet the Carta with Faith. Trading work for another job was a _form_ of socializing.

"Meet me at the Bone Pit at 10," Meeran said, "And I still have to decide arrangements for the ole girl. Tell her I'm thinking about it."

"Yes, sir," Samson replied, wanting to say 'wanker' instead, "Goodnight."

* * *

On his way back to Darktown, he weaved past drunks, but not just them - refugees too. He had a good look at them, not having had much chance before, being caught up in some thought or another.

Children, mothers, fathers, brothers, and sisters wandered about the streets. Big, small, too small, too big, coloured and not, clean, dirty and dirtier… The accents gave it away. Some were haggling, or cooking over fires, others sleeping on what pillows and everything else they had. It was bizarre. They grouped in packs, like they were camping out in preparation of All Soul's Day or something.

_I coulda been tossed in with you lot,_ Samson thought grimly, _Kirkwall's a crummy place. _

For how crowded it was, at this rate one wouldn't be able to walk anywhere in Lowtown.

"Hey, Samson!" someone else approached him. It was Warren, the bearded man who had taught Samson how to fish properly, "You don't have any coin on you, mate?"

Samson blinked. Had the Fereldan jumped in front of him, or magically appeared?

"I wish," He said annoyed, emptying his pockets to show the man he wasn't lying, "Someone took it away."

"Blimey, that's a shame," Warren sighed, "Sorry for asking. Maker, it shrivels my insides. It's bloody grim out here."

Anxiety poured through the man's tone, as if he had wanted to tell someone this for days.

"I thought the Chantry was helping?" Samson probed.

"They've got us rotating now," Warren said sadly, "I _know_. Back to the drawing board, but they can't do anything else. I volunteered to sleep out here so my kids and the wife don't have to."

Samson groaned. He couldn't think much else apart from how horribly unfair it all was. "Job hunt not working out?"

"The Thieving Guilds always looking for people," Warren said brightly, and Samson was mildly shocked, "But I'd rather not have to do that. No justice taking from others pockets – see? Look what happened to you."

"Anyone bothers you; I'll give them a nice, long lecture and a kick in the ass," Samson told him.

Warren chuckled, "I forgive and forget. I hated beggars in Fereldan myself."

Samson grumbled to himself. He wasn't sure what to think of this situation. He liked Warren, but he liked his coin too. Was that selfish?

"Come fishing with me sometime," he said finally, "we can share what we catch."

This he could do. The coin was for lyrium, but Samson was willing to give up his time.

Warren chuckled, "If I had your confidence, I'd probably earn myself more coin."

_What confidence?_ The former Templar wondered, but he pushed the thought aside, "You can rise above this. You're not a simple beggar. You're a _man_, a thoughtful lad named Warren. You've done good work before and you have as much power as anybody." Of all things he had to compare, he recalled the moments absorbed in the lyrium's power.

Warren laughed, "I look forward to chatting with you again at the Docks."

"Good luck," Samson said, and he walked away, feeling far better than he had since the day began. Maybe strolling to the Hanged Man hadn't all been for nothing.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Thank you Flaminea for your wonderful proof reading assistance!


	20. Vitatio - Avoidance

The sharp scent of lyrium taunted him. What a cruel fate that a grotesque temptation was masked as a glorious, delectable sweet. Keeping focused on what he had approached the larder for, he grabbed a fruit scroll, shoved it into his mouth and closed it. He still found it peculiar that Faith was lying face up in the middle of the floor, and even more disturbing that she had no intention to cook or eat anything. Her figure was fascinating by the light of the fire place. With her mask washed away, even her scars had an esoteric charm. The faintest tease of her knickers and breasts were exposed from where he sat. Mere smidgens of smooth skin peeked from the worn material of her night gown. Yet, the thought of the potion seduced him still. He couldn't let it.

"I am curious…." Samson began slowly. He thought of asking about Lilley, "Did you learn to cook by yourself?"

"No," Faith replied, in an unnaturally flat tone, "I use recipe books. My grandfather liked Antivan cooking, so I have a preference for it."

"The cake from yesterday… It was good."

"Thank you."

Just _thinking_ about it made him want to eat it.

"Is that from a book too?"

"I altered it," Faith said, "When I was little, my grandfather found an Antivan community through the Chantry. I went to… social meetings, I suppose. Sharing of food was a regular occurrence."

"Did you learn from them?"

"Yes, though I don't recall from whom anymore."

_Stop thinking 'bout the lyrium cake, _Samson chuckled, "How old were you?"

"Probably five years old," Faith said, "A blissfully ignorant existence. My grandfather was meticulous about his cooking- we made lots of cake together."

He ate finished his scroll and his mind became foggy. "Can I have lyrium?"

Faith met his eyes and looked a tad irritated. "Are you craving it?"

Samson nodded, not wanting to explain he'd been craving the stuff a good part of the day.

"How badly do you want it?"

"Horrid enough to ask," Samson admitted, his gaze wandering.

With a bang, Faith thumped her palm on the floor, the sound jolting him back to the blue of her eyes, glass vessels full of sin.

"We share." Her words were indisputable commands, "And there's the plan."

"About that…" Samson began, physically turning himself away from the larder, "I'm sensing a problem. What if… it becomes so terrible I lose myself? If we both lose it, I can't see you sharing."  
"Warnings or politeness are preferable," Faith said rigidly, "but losing control is something else. Are you afraid that will happen to you?"

Samson nodded, feeling too guilty to say anything.

She examined him carefully, "Most of the time the distraction will work."

Silence passed. He wasn't sure if or how the prostitute wanted this to be organized. If he had to guess, sex was probably the activity she wanted to perform the least at this moment.

"Offer what you are willing to share," he said slowly, "and I'll take less than that."

"I concur," Faith answered slowly, "Did you work?"

"No. Meeran said he'd think about where he wants to talk to you."

Faith grunted.

"You still in a snit?" Samson checked.

"A non-existent one," she clarified, "The Guard left a letter under the door. Lilley's locked up. It won't be for long but it's nice she couldn't get her way. Apparently she's been arrested a few times. She tossed the key into the ocean and spent your earnings. I'll have to get you another one made."

"That's nice of you." Remembering that Lilley irked her, maybe it was good to talk about something else. When _lyrium_ was all that entered his head, he became lost and his regard drifted away from her.

"You didn't want my life," Faith stated. It was such a simple observation, one Samson had near forgotten, "Do you not find a lewd pleasure in looking at me, because you can see what the horrors of time and my efforts have done?"

He rotated back to watch her, again, annoyed he was so fidgety. Wondering if she meant the burst blood vessels on her face, he traced the shape of one on himself. "Is that the poison's work?" he questioned.

Faith nodded.

"What happened?" he asked.

She looked dismayed. "Why should I tell you?"

The former Templar moved across the floor until he was sitting next to her, "Because I want to know."

"You think it's ugly."

It wasn't exactly a _normal_ sight, though he found it didn't bother him. "I like it." He gave a sneaky grin. "Makes you look like you've been in a fight. I like women who can fight."

The woman seemed amused. "I win many. I spill a lot of blood. Does that frighten you?"

"I'm not scared of anything," he boasted, which wasn't true, though a fragment of him wanted to impress her.

An abnormality presented itself. She didn't reply, though like a sculpture buried under ice, steeliness didn't shield her away. In the shine of her eyes, he saw unwillingness, though her smile was adrift, not completely a smile. Placing a hand on the floor next her shoulder, he leaned closer, to look deeper, to understand, except all he discovered were more questions. A desire built within him, a wish to call her gorgeous, all flaws accounted for. Like when he cleaned make up from her face, the letters didn't form into words. Yesterday he had admitted something to that effect, though he'd been under the influence of lyrium and following her commands to praise her. Eyes locked on each other now, she did not demand anything.

Tone conveyed what words couldn't, so Samson shared in his inflection what his mind failed to translate. "I really want to listen to your story."

It didn't sound like himself.

A chill came over his fingers. He glanced down for only a brief second. Faith was trailing his hand gently up the inside of her thigh. In that trice he forgot to breathe, though he relaxed his arm. His hand was set free of her icy skin next to her knickers. Unsure, he prodded at where her opening would be if the fabric was not covering it. Exhaling as slowly as he could to not break the silence, he was titillated to find it sodden.

"I have an old bottle of wine," Faith said slowly, "in the top most cabinet. If you can retrieve it for me, I will try explain."

It took some effort to pull away. He wandered over to the cabinet and had to climb onto one of the chairs to get that high. This shelf had a number of oddly shaped bottles, most of them empty, except a red. There was a note written in curvy writing that said: _Step back down._ _Special occasions only!_

Thinking this was a strange definition of a special occasion, he removed it and poured two glasses–leaving the one with less alcohol for himself and brought it to the table. Faith muttered gibberish as she climbed to her feet, her bad leg shaking.

He carried the chair back as Faith drank two large gulps of the wine. When she swallowed, she looked sickened. "The marks were Ewan's fault-my apostate… friend."

The words fell from her lips grudgingly, shaking, as if she'd drunk the entire bottle of wine.

Samson nodded, swallowing his own drink. Again, her definition of friend was a blurry one.

Faith took a few deep breaths and covered her eyes, as though trying to block out a blinding light. "He saved me with lyrium from his personal stores," she drawled, "Can you think of what might be wrong with that?"

Upon reflection, it had an easy answer, "It was lyrium for a mage."

"Exactly! Clever, Samson. You… have some lyrium if you want… but only a little. It is my lyrium. They belong to me." The woman seemed suddenly devoid of energy, but also caught in her own head-a distressing place, no doubt. "You don't understand… It wasn't my fault the withdrawal didn't work out. I didn't mean to get trapped by it."

That sounded familiar. Where had he heard that before? Oh. The first time Samson had vomited around her.

"How did Lusine deal with you first time we met?" Samson asked, unable to recall anything beyond being sick.

"She helped me get dressed. I… got my shawl… no… I had a shower first… _then_ when I was dressed she got me to count coins. Vivika stayed with me."

He tugged Faith's arm. "Come on. Show me where your coin is. You can count it."

"Big coin pouch in my pillow case," she said, getting to her feet. The man guided her to the bed. Once on it, Faith grabbed a pillow between her fingers and reached inside. A leather pouch was removed, and she tipped out a hundred sovereigns, likely more, onto the bed.

"Andraste help you," Samson spluttered. From the state of her house and the lack of decent food, or really anything, he suspected she had no idea how to save money. This was not the case. Yes, she ordered lyrium, but he didn't know it cost _this_ much.

Faith positioned the pouch in front of her and picked up a piece of gold.

"One gold piece," she said, paying attention as she dropped it back inside like a bug that might fly away. "Two gold pieces. Three gold pieces. Four gold pieces."

Samson watched bewildered as Faith continued up to do this, listening to each piece of metal clash against the others as it fell, almost making music. He couldn't look away from the gold. He had never seen so much just _lying_ there, a small fortune. Didn't she want pretty clothes, shoes, jewellery–a fancy Estate? That's what most did with their excess coin.

Feeling relieved that she wasn't going to whack him over the head, Samson returned to the larder and took out a small square of cake, chewing it. The warmth was pleasant since he had been without it for so long. Technically, hardly nine hours, but still- Maker help him. He swallowed as he removed his boots one handed and changed into his night clothes, not caring if Faith saw him or not.

From the sounds of tinkling coins, his bare skin had not pulled her away.

"Seventeen gold pieces. Eighteen gold pieces. Nineteen gold pieces…"

Once Samson was in night clothes, he squeezed her shoulder, not sure how he was feeling about all this. "You alright?"

Faith took a deep breath, nodded, brought both her arms to her sides and pulled off her night dress. Samson averted his eyes- never mind that he had been very allured to her minutes earlier.

"Maker, woman! You have no shame!"

"The cold will keep me distracted," she said.

Samson chuckled darkly and kept his eyes on his own pillow.

"The marks had split open and were bleeding," Faith continued steadily, "I woke up to him trying to reverse its effects with healing magic. It was quite frightening. I screamed. He swore. Ewan said he created a new problem by getting rid of another. The lyrium he used was _very_ potent. It took a long while until I understood." She paused. "It all came crashing down, the horror, the sadness, the joy, the insanity. Healing magic was not his specialty- he couldn't remove it entirely, but it stopped the blood."

Samson pondered on this. "Alright. How did Ewan…" he paused. If Faith wasn't allowed to get side tracked, neither was he. "Your strokes…"

"It's more my fault than the lyrium," Faith said simply, "Stress. Or both."

The scoundrel laughed at that, "Right, so consuming lyrium like you do will ruin me."

"Anything can wreck you," Faith pointed out, "but how close to the edge are you willing to tread?"

The man scooped the coins back into Faith's pouch, taking care not to stare at her. "Dunno. Sorry I didn't cook anything. My mother never got the hang of cooking," Samson recalled, "Actually, I think she hated it. It annoyed my father whenever she tried because she was inattentive and made mistakes. So… she took Chantry food home mostly."

"Ah. That's why you can't bake anything," Faith said with a small smile, "You will learn. I am told I teach well."

"Also, I need to compensate a lad for finding the Guards for me."

"I'll leave coin on the table tomorrow. How much?" Faith said simply. The fire from the fireplace was dying out. The two were practically shadows.

"Dunno, just whatever." He felt guilty. "How can I thank you?"

The prostitute avoided his eye. "That is not necessary," though she curled up under the covers and he joined her.

* * *

"I'm sorry I lost the spare key and the coin," He mentioned, running his fingers up to the sides of her ribs. Faith's awkward hand lay on Samson's head, and then searched to find his shoulders.

"Forget it. I can guess what happened," she muttered.

"Really now?" Samson tested. He remembered how keen Lilley was to distract him, but couldn't figure out how to best explain it. The whole thing made him feel extremely stupid.

"Lilley is a voracious pixie," Faith said simply.

"Yes." Samson agreed with that, "but that doesn't mean you know what happened."

Faith groaned, "What did she say?"

Samson explained the innocent part about the Chantry.

"She was a friend," Faith said, "Kept me company, encouraged me to find and apply for work, but I kept telling her I wanted to get better first. Elthina asked me to leave because my acting out from hallucinations was disturbing the masses." She paused, "She claimed oh-so-dutifully that the choice wasn't hers. I highly doubt my sickness would matter if they'd provided my _own_ room! But no. A woman who dedicated her life to the Chantry has to sleep in the same quarters as everybody else.

"Back to Lilley… When my grandfather died, he left me everything he had, including the house, but when the Chantry didn't want anything to do with me, I avoided staying inside. The grief was too much. It made me feel insane. He died when I was seventeen, yet... I am not certain why I couldn't grasp the depths of pain until then. I only went there to sleep. I sold a lot of his possessions and spent the money on food so I could try get through my withdrawal. I went to The Hanged Man and curled up with a pillow, a hot water bottle, a small blanket and sat near the bard."

"How'd you endure the racket?" Samson questioned, remembering how he felt going drinking in the Guard.

"I discovered that if I focused on the music and conversations I wouldn't act out as much from hallucinations."

"They didn't toss you?"

"Many thought I was drunk." Faith responded, "It was easier to agree, but it stopped working after… hmm… the staff asked. But they were sympathetic to the truth. They let me stay, sometimes talked to me on their lunch breaks and lent me books. One manager let me rest in the staff room while he did finances."

"Least they were decent," Samson said.

"Not all of them were. Some patrons talked to me," Faith said, "Most drunk fools. Meeran bought me soup on occasion –seemed intrigued by my history, said he was looking for workers, that he'd be around when I was feeling better. I didn't think much of it at the time, though I travelled from tavern to tavern every day. The Blooming Rose was my favourite. Back in the Chantry days, Lilley encouraged me to work there. She believed I had the right personality for it."

"Is there a right type of personality for being a wench?" Samson joked.

"Indeed, little man. One who can improvise, jump into the darkest part of the ocean with strangers, and has a desire to assist people," Faith said shortly, not offended, "Lilley tried working there once and hated it. I thought maybe I would when the withdrawal was over. Lilley visited me once a week in the taverns. Busy with work, she said."

"Welcome company?"

"Four nights out of five," Faith decided, "She kept away the idiots. One night… Bought me drinks… asked how I was. As you know, long answer to a short question, and I was always honest with Lilley about withdrawal. I drank just because it was there. And when she shoved her tongue down my throat I went along because she was there too, all a lonely, sickly haze."

"She took you back to your Grandfather's house?" Samson probed.

"She told you this story?"

"Her version of it…"

"Oh yes, I bet she did." Faith didn't sound amused. "I woke up there, in that same fog, only naked too, and she'd stolen everything left in the house, except the clothes I had been wearing and my keys."

A combination of disgust, guilt and self-loathing came over Samson. Lilley had preyed on his weakness so easily. True, he'd been mentally unsound from craving lyrium, but the woman probably could have fed him any story and he would have been mesmerized by it. Was the misfortune his fault? He hadn't fought her off even suspecting that she wasn't genuine. It was foul that the story she'd used to lure him was a tale of how she'd preyed on somebody else's vulnerabilities, only reframed, glorified and sexualized. He couldn't decide whether he found himself or Lilley more disgusting and hateful.

"Can you believe Lilley didn't find the ending of the story important?" Samson said, mockingly, "She fucked me around a little the same way, so I believe your version, though…" He wanted to get off the topic of his encounter with Lilley. "The house? Why were you so ready to donate it?"

"I didn't use it," Faith said, "And I wanted her to leave me alone, so a few months after I had started working I made her promise she would if I gave it to her. Thankfully, she can at least do that. She _said_ she was sorry, had developed some compulsive stealing problem from when she was three… 'Why do I want to be around a compulsive shithead?' I told her. She didn't know the answer to that."

"A fair question," Samson agreed. He was sleepy and ready to drift off, but there was something else that was confusing, "How'd you manage before that point?"

"I had one pair of clothes and an empty house." Faith admitted, "And I didn't want to stay there. It wasn't safe. It made me want to die. The women workers at the Hanged Man gave me hand me downs. That was very kind of them. I asked the nice ones from the tavern's for a place to sleep … _just overnight_, I said, _I'm too ill to be on my own_. Not completely untrue, but it got the job done. They wanted to keep me for longer, but I felt like a liability. So I rotated. One of the managers at the Hanged Man let me stay in the rooms. When I ran out of kind men and women, I let strangers flirt and touch me so they had a reason to feed and house me. The intentions were tainted, but I didn't care anymore. I didn't want my body and heart to feel any colder. At least there were no false expectations."

"Repulsive gits," Samson said, "I'm pleased you were around for me, Faith. I was close to sleeping outside."

Faith chuckled, "You _were_ outside."

"Suppose," he said, "How long did you go 'round doing that for?"

"I forget," Faith acknowledged, "One day Meeran noticed what I was up to and told me to stop, said I could sleep at his place. I stayed there four nights in total in my rotations. He didn't pay any attention to me as he was preoccupied with work matters. Compared to some, I liked that he just let me do nothing and there was no expectation for me to do anything else. Then I collapsed one night while tavern crawling and you know what happened next."

Samson mused over it in his head. "Your withdrawal ended."

"Ewan let me live with him until I could get my own house," Faith explained, "I talked to Meeran and I applied at the Blooming Rose, and that's the end of that."

"You have a knack for telling stories," Samson said, "even if they're wretched."

"I'm afraid so," Faith agreed, and she curled up, "You have a knack for listening to stories that aren't interesting."

"They're more interesting than mine."

"You flatter me."

Samson found a lot of his anger had gone. "Even princesses deserve flattery once in a while."

He closed his eyes as Faith sniggered.

That night, he agreed to follow Faith, live how she lived, drank how she drank, but also take a stance to do so as comrades in arms. He would use the poison moderately, carefully, receive what was spared with kindness, and keep it safe, let it brew in his gut. Guilt stirred inside and he groaned.

"I'm a fucking moron," he held her closer to him; "I _knew_ she wasn't trustworthy, but I still got side-tracked by Lilley's stupid bullshit story and she sniped my coin."

"It was not your fault."

"But it-"

"Was Lilley taking all of my possessions _my_ fault?"

"No, but-"

"If someone _deliberately_ goes out of their way to step on you, it's their fault, because they're the ones who had the idea," Faith interrupted him. There was no doubt in her voice whatsoever. She held onto one of his hands.

He wanted to believe her. Maybe… he kind of liked Faith.

There wasn't only a Rose woman in the bed with him. Tonight he invited the lyrium to live in this house, lie in the bed, and infiltrate his defenses. Fear for withdrawal enslaved him, for the possession that insisted he give in. But Faith kept him safe. Faith was powerful in the realm of the hymn.

He pressed closer to her, breathing in deeply. The woman, not quite asleep, sounded amused.

"You have the sniffles?"

"Do I?" Samson said, confused.

"For dust," Faith elaborated, "Dust sniffles."

"Ah ha…" he took a breath, making a sound that didn't agree or disagree, but questioned. He had only been breathing through his nose, in an attempt to discretely… smell her. Maker, maybe he _did_ have the sniffles. "Is it a nuisance?"

"You're a pest," Faith confessed, "but the sniffles can stay."

It was a joke. Samson smiled ruefully, and didn't say anything else. They weren't the only ones evading the shadows, keeping watch for the danger. The mages had the same struggle with the Fade and the demons that slept there.

"You hate Meeran," Samson stated.

"Yes."

"Did he mess you around like Lilley did?"

Faith hesitated. "No, not like she did."

Samson felt himself get sleepier. "Meaning what?"

"I sought him out deliberately."

Never before had Samson been stunned so perfectly into silence. It almost sounded like Meeran and Faith's stories matched.

"Tomorrow," Faith promised. "I think… I want to tell you. I appreciate you being here."

Words were hard to grasp, being so sleepy, but Samson managed, "I think I like being here."

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Thanks to Flaminea for the support and proof read as always.


	21. Piscari - Fishing

It was unsettling to be woken by the ringing of the Chantry bells. At the Gallows birds and the sun pulled him from dreams, like he was waking one illusion to welcome another prismatic, removed cluster of bliss. The chime's vibration invaded him, rippling through his body, the bed, to the floor like that the Chantry was some inescapable presence.

Faith and Samson braced Darktown, keeping their focus ahead. Life was like the misty fog above their heads, torrid, a storm ever looming, but with a light shining through. The woman beside him took slow, careful steps, as she wasn't using a walking stick. Samson wanted to walk as slow as her, but he had to pace quicker. Time was not on his side.

Perhaps his Templar friends, like Zoe, would find it peculiar to see him out here. Considering what Chandler had told him, he wasn't sure he could wait to write to Zoe out of good will for much longer.

_I'll check the Rose for mail after I've met up with Reiner,_ Samson decided.

Maybe he could ask Faith's opinion about why she was here, as she must have re-evaluated it at some point.

"Do you think your purpose is different to how it was when you left the Circle?"

Faith replied with a tone that didn't imply offense. "Are you trying to be funny?"

"No," Samson said earnestly, "I mean it."

Without a flinch or notion of acknowledgement, Faith continued to walk.

"Life as a Templar was a lengthy dream," she recalled, "The moment I saw the Templars in the Chantry I knew I wanted to be one of them. I was fixated by it. There was something about those Knights of the Chantry. Even knowing the world was cruel, I felt safe so long as I was near one. I wanted to be that to someone, to many. A Templar meant no nightmares. But it was only a dream. None of it was real."

She skidded one of her heels in the pavement, and Samson started, nearly grabbing her so she wouldn't trip. When they'd been immersed in lyrium her expression of thought and choice of words had also been unusual. That had been real. Why were the _good_ parts of the world not real?

Pressed for time, he left the question at the back of his mind.

"…And now?" Samson probed, hoping she wouldn't answer in a riddle.

Faith looked like she was forcing her mouth closed for a worry she might vomit. "There's no such thing as protection," she said, "so my purpose is impossible."

There seemed a simple reason why that wasn't true anymore. The Order had betrayed and not protected her.

"It isn't impossible," Samson assured her, "You are still that person, but your duty is foremost to protect yourself."

Faith stopped moving, and Samson did too. Her expression was one of hardened grief, like she was frozen in time. "Then why don't I feel like I did in the Gallows?"

Samson surveyed those blue eyes, the colour of the liquid that had both destroyed and kept her alive, something cruel. He saw the courageousness that she possessed at times, and the fear that overcame it.

No question lingered about her fate. Faith could never be a Templar again, even if she wanted to be. Her sense of self and morality was too distorted.

"I don't know," Samson admitted, "But…" He found that all words were taken, though he shared Faith's thoughts. "As allies, we can find salvation. Hand me some drinks and I'd sacrifice my dignity. I'll sing you some lullabies until you'll fall asleep safe and sound. You can dream about anything, and I can still be there when you wake up, and everything will be in the same place you left it."

"If your song was not derived from the Chant..." Faith gave a sad sort of smile. "That would please me."

The former Templars smirked and then they parted ways. Sometimes, they didn't need to talk.

* * *

"For your trouble," Samson muttered.

Reiner took the coin with a snatch, as though he suspected it was going to be thrown into the water. Like yesterday, the man's face was completely obscured by a helmet.

"At least you're not unreliable." He said with a sneer. "Off to cut open some fish?"

"Maybe," Samson said, which could be true, "Unless you have any odd jobs you'd rather pass on. I used to be in the Circle and the Guard. I have knowledge and skills you might find advantageous."

"Yeah?" Reiner didn't sound impressed, "I'll think on it, sourpuss, but I wouldn't get your hopes up."

"I won't."  
The scoundrel wasn't sure what emotion was appropriate at that moment, so he kept his expression blank.

* * *

The work from Meeran, which he was extremely grateful for, was guarding an Orlesian comte while he had a meeting at a Chateau Haine - those Orlesian's and their castles! Guarding someone was _easy_. He was also provided information on where his boss and Faith would be meeting. Those were details he'd rather think about later.

Having the liberty of an hour before he needed to work, he checked the Blooming Rose and asked for Olina. Fifteen minutes later, she ushered him over from the bar. For once he was pleased that Faith was with a client and wouldn't see him.

"How're you this morning?" Samson asked.

"Well, thank you." Olina responded with a genuine smile, "Hubby and I are organizing a holiday in Antiva for Satinalia."  
She handed Samson an envelope with Phillipa's handwriting on it.

Satinalia was a holiday that no one paid attention to in Kirkwall. Orlais and Antiva liked to make a big deal out of it with masks and big parties. In Kirkwall, it was an excuse for beer and splurging money.

"How is Faith?" Olina added.

"Not organizing any holiday," Samson muttered, "Thanks for that, Olina."

He was about to walk away when the blonde asked, "You don't want Faith knowing you're getting mail?"

"I don't want my friends knowing where I'm staying," he replied carefully, "and I'll let Faith know at some point."

Though he wasn't sure when that was, he went to an empty desk in a faraway room before tearing open the envelope.

_My loveliest friend,_

_Hello Samson! Yes, it was sudden to hear from you, but the pleasant sort of sudden, like receiving a gift. Thank you. Although I am sorry to say your kind words do little to ease my worries about Maddox. It is a demon of its own, and while I can use my training to lessen it, the sorrow in my heart still lingers like melting snow that makes me shiver._

_Are you well? Where are you staying? We were very concerned for you after last time we saw you!_

_I can't believe you doubt me! I am excellent at keeping letters a secret. Zoe will hear nothing! I am so humbled you trust me with that, even after my foolishness. It is me who doesn't have a functioning head._

_Your question of our purpose is a very interesting one. I'm afraid I am as lost as you are. I convinced myself to be with Maddox after reading a passage. The Chant says:_

_"Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing, An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown. You have forgotten spear-maid of Alamarr. Within My creation, none are alone."_

_I don't think we are supposed to feel alone and lost, though I am in an ocean of sorrow, so I don't know what I did wrong. I looked for something else. When the Magisters were scrutinized by the Maker for tainting the Golden City, this is what He told them:_

_You have chosen, and spilled the blood of innocence for power. I pity your folly, but still more do I pity those whose lives you have taken in pursuit of selfish goals. No more will you bear the Light. To darkness flee, and be gone from My sight!_

_I often worry I stole Maddox's mind, that I made him Tranquil in an indirect way. In this, I warped him. I changed him, and for what? Not power, no. For a selfish goal? Maybe. I wanted him. I loved him. I still love him. Is it selfish to love, Samson? Is it self-regarding to hold somebody close? In it, I threw away my power. I took away his. I don't have anything anymore. The Maker pities me, I am sure. I do not think He hates me, for I did not kill, but it was still terrible. I think He has taken some of my light._

_What does a Templar do with less light? I think I have to make more. I have to find my light again, but where do I look?_

_I was too sad to ask Maddox, so I asked Zoe to go instead. He said: "To my limited understanding, purpose is the word used to describe the place inside where a person harvests their strength."_

_I cried so much, Samson. I think my eyes are broken. Isn't that funny? I sometimes think I've gone mad. I guess Zoe thinks so too, but she won't say so._

_The Chant and the Maker used to give me strength, but now they don't, not when it matters. I feel so weak. I wonder what the Maker was thinking – did I misinterpret what He wanted for me? If so, am I good enough to be a Templar when I miss something so critical? I kept to my duty when I was with Maddox – I am worse with him gone. He gave me strength. When he couldn't, Zoe helped, my father, you did. Now you are both so far away._

_Where has my happiness gone? Zoe and the others are saying I should be transferred. Is that truly the answer? Isn't my purpose in Kirkwall? It used to make me so happy. It made me so joyous for so many years, my whole life. Why did it all go away? How does anybody find happiness if it can be taken away so brutally, so quickly, without mercy?_

_I don't know what I deserve anymore. I want to take my own advice, but maybe I was wrong about that too?_

_Samson, I hope this helps you discover how your purpose has changed. You have a capable brain –except around a certain someone. I know you can use it. Maybe you can make sense of the Maker better than me._

_I am trying to be well, but I'm still in that big, sad ocean._

_May the Maker guide you_

_Phillipa_

Samson checked the clock on the wall. He had time to reply and that was all. He requested water off a waitress before responding, borrowing a quill from the counter as well. He wrote on the back of the parchment, wishing he had more words to express what he wanted.

_Dear Phillipa,_

_The only brilliant singer of the Chant…_

_I found a friend to stay with. The withdrawal isn't a bother for now, don't worry. I'll write more about it another time._

_You didn't turn Maddox Tranquil, Meredith did. The Maker was talking about a bunch of Magisters who did something really stupid. You're not a Magister for a reason –you'd be too humble for it, firstly. I think part of you knows that, because writing to Maddox wasn't done for power or selfish gain._

_I don't know what love is, but I believe I saw it in you and Maddox. I know selfishness is disregarding the wants and feelings of others. It is taking things for the self. Maybe some lovers mistake the two, but they are confused lovers. They do not know what love is, or they are clueless on how to feel it. That is not you. Stop comparing yourself to immoral twats._

_I think my light is less too, but lesser than yours. I don't know why._

_So Maddox might be wiser as a Tranquil than as his true self… I wouldn't have guessed that. He makes alright sense. What gives a person's strength provides purpose, and the two return a person's light._

_I will do some thinking on this, Phillipa, but it was helpful. Ask Zoe to tell Maddox thank you._

_Your eyes might be broken. Mine were the same recently, although I don't think you are mad. You are no madder than I, just lost. The Chant gave me guidance when I bothered to read and think about it, but you know how tiresome I find that. Your translations are easier to understand._

_I don't think you misinterpreted what the Maker wanted for you. I think Meredith did. If she had half a brain she'd have let Maddox off the hook._

_It's not my job to choose if you should get a transfer or not. But I have a thought. If you no longer find strength in the Gallows, doesn't it make sense to start looking somewhere else? Maybe in the process your light will get brighter again, all on its own._

_Please keep your voice loud, humble and honoured. You have too big of a heart for it to be lost. The choir will not ring without you._

_Always happy to write if you need…._

_The Maker always guides you_

_Samson_

He felt a swelling in his heart as he curved the last letter of his name, sliding the parchment in an envelope. It was pleasant to offer comfort to a friend. Did Maddox feel this pride as he wrote too, or was that simply love? Giving people the words they needed invigorated him and made him feel as if he had purpose, just like this letter.

He handed it to a travelling merchant with a wash of relief.

* * *

De Launcet and Samson traveled outside of Kirkwall by horse, up the Vimmark mountains. The opulent client didn't say what the meeting was for, although he mentioned he was incredibly suspicious of traps. Samson didn't mind. The weather was balmy and it was nice to see outside the city. He had never realized how pretty nature was, didn't realize it was_ capable _of looking any better, since Templar training did not extend beyond Sundermount. The altered landscape was eye opening, fantastical. The flowers were more abundant, in brighter colours, pinks, blues and lilacs, leaves were shaped larger, more like wings, and even the soil had a richer maroon, finer texture, of varied shades. The air smelt purer, the tree branches created knots and extended as spider webs or vines, rather than rigid, unmovable spikes. Looking for trouble in such a wondrous landscape was nothing less than a privilege.

Lunch came and went with brioche, a strange name for delicious bread, and the former Templar suspected he had been hired for the company more than his talent with a sword.

The comte flicked a fly from his golden moustache.

"Are you informed on Orlesian authors, Raleigh?" he wondered, in a tone that suggested the answer would be judged harshly.

"Not unless it came from a Gallows bookshelf," Samson said, keeping his eyes on the surrounding area.

"What is your opinion on Paris' _Whispers of the Shadow Goddess_?"

"Adrienne Paris?" he checked, recognizing the name. It was one of those authors that got mentioned so many times a Templar would learn it even if they didn't want to. "What about it?"

"What do you believe the Alamarri tribes were fleeing?" De Launcet pressed, "Do you think Paris was right in theorizing an Old God, or do your questions travel elsewhere?"

The Alamarri tribes were considered the first humans to walk Thedas, the ones who started everything in the Ancient Age. Samson only remembered because Alamarri started with the letter A, and so did Ancient, Adrienne and an Awkward Adventure. He had Bailey to thank for that. At least his first roommate was good at rhymes, not like _Cullen_. No times for rhymes or games. No time for him.

Samson gripped the reins tighter, suddenly irritated. "I don't care."

"What was that?" De Launcet own surprise nearly frightened his stallion.

"What use is history," Samson explained gruffly, "if it is so inconclusive that we cannot learn from it?" He tried to gather his thoughts again, despite being angry at Cullen. "All that matters is the Alamarri made it to Fereldan and named it. Why question how they got there?"

"I understand." De Launcet nodded. "You are a man of ends, and not means."

"The methods matter plenty." Samson quickly corrected the man before a misunderstanding occurred. "But we do not know what the means were –or more importantly, the mind who told his people to flee. That is why it is stupid."

De Launcet paused. "That is intriguing, Raleigh. If that is the case, how would you _like_ Paris's story to go?"

"I don't care, so long as they were content with their decisions and knew why they were making that choice. _The facts are_ we know nothing about those bits, so the story means nothing to me. It could be a desultory occurrence. If I were them, I'd want to know more about the Shadow Goddess before running –in case she could be made an ally." He snorted. "If it was even a _she_."

"You would cause much disruption in the clan, I expect?" De Launcet pressed, but Samson heard a flurry of something between the trees and halted suddenly. Within moments it was clear what that something was. A silverish blue reptile scampered out of the trees, crushing leaves beneath it. Its bottom lip curved up around its top, making it look more like an ugly fish.

"Can you get it, Raleigh?" De Launcet sighed wearily, as if asking Samson to answer the ruddy door to his Estate.

"Yes, sir." The words were empty, devoid of all feeling. Samson gripped his sword and lowered himself from the horse, having a staring contest with the dragon-like creature. It didn't blink, even when he did. It did not move, even when he did, though he paced slowly toward it, like a bird he didn't wish to fly away. Samson didn't know what this thing was. The Bone Pit didn't house Dragons like these, if that's even what it was. So it meant nothing at all.

There were no questions of means, ends or anything in between. He only knew that it would die. As the weapon impaled those lovely, glittering scales and the creature shrieked, Samson imagined he was striking down the craving for lyrium that had swooped down on his mind. When he leaned his weight into his weapon and felt bones move or shudder against the silver, the ugly fish flailed, specks of blood flew, and the reptile snapped at his boots with pick like fangs. Samson kicked its head.

_Clunk_.

If he was at the Docks, he'd throw the now dead fish into a bucket. The goal of fishing wasn't death- murder was an unfortunate side effect of a retrieving much more valuable treasure: fuel, what he needed to thrive.

He liked the physical exertion and challenge that killing presented, but when the dragon stopped moving for long enough, Samson knew for certain. He didn't enjoy the sound of screams, whether it from an animal or human, even if it was something necessary. Blood and other's pain made him nauseous. However, it was a task he could achieve, so long as he was removing _obstacles_. Thinking about how cute the ugly fish had been, how his ugly fish Dragon friends would now be sad, depressed him.

_It was that Dragon's fault it died. We were going to a castle to have a nice day, it got in my way and started a fight. I was defending myself. I didn't want to kill it. _

"May the Maker take you to your brothers and sisters," Samson muttered. He covered the Dragon's empty eyes with his boot, hiding evidence of its soul from view, out of sight and out of mind. "You don't have to be alone anymore."

With a crunch and much effort, he crushed that plate of the Dragon's skull, and when he removed his boot, he could no longer see its lack of soul, only unidentifiable streams of bone and flesh, like gutted trout. It might as well not have had one at all.

_Really, I was doing that helpless thing a favour. _

He would only accept jobs from the Red Iron from here forward that did not have _using up_ written on the label.

When the DeLauncets meeting occurred, there was no attack on the Orlesian, although Samson killed a number of the aggressive reptiles on the way back, which De Launcet said were called Lurkers. Samson realized he preferred not knowing its names, after all.

They had a large stretch of no conversation, until De Launcet asked Samson about the Circle, specifically, his opinion on mages.

"They are people," Samson said, "and the Circle gives them as much life experience as living in a broom cupboard. It's not their fault they're sometimes idiots, when all they've seen is walls."

The comte chuckled. "My son is one of those fools."

Samson only stared at De Launcet, not on well enough terms with him to express what he truly wanted, so he waited.

"Between business men, Raleigh, out of curiosity," De Launcet purred, "do you think mages would be cleverer if given freedom?"

"Why not?" Samson said, somewhat relieved to hear the topic brought up. "Keep the smartest man in the same place for too long and even he loses himself eventually."

De Launcet touted a look of consideration. "Do you think the Gallows is so terrible?"

The Circle wasn't a fixed existence. It changed. Its dynamics reorganized as people came and went, just like the turning of the tides, or the leaves on a tree. Phillipa had changed from Maddox turning Tranquil, but had Maddox changed much in his ideals and dreams? Samson hadn't had a chance to speak to him to know.

"Yes. It's just a building, but it is the people inside who are broken. If I was still a Templar, I'd try do something about it," Samson replied finally.

De Launcet went silent. The mercenary didn't care. It wasn't clear why the Orlesian was asking anyway... he just wanted to get paid. And he was rewarded handsomely on return to Kirkwall.

* * *

It was sunset. A gorgeous time of evening, and he cherished it, truly marveling at his ability to walk, his capacity to think, his clarity of thought as he passed refugees, sailors, children and more in the streets. The stench of the place was a weird comfort.

He played with the coin in his pocket, as though fiddling with the lyrium vial, like it held all the answers.

_What do you think of all this shit, Maddox?_ Samson wondered.

Before he could go home there was someone else he had to write to, something more urgent. He desired to write some comforting words, so he went to a merchant to buy some parchment and went to the back corner of the Blooming Rose to write.

Samson thought for a few moments before lowering the first line of ink on the page. He had to try removing any connotations of Zoe and his relationship from the title.

_Zoe,_

_How are you?_

_Shit_, Samson moved the quill away so it wouldn't blot all over the page. What came after that? Butterfly would want to know how he was.

_I'll be honest. I'm not sure how to explain my situation to Cullen or Phillipa without getting a slap, but as I promised, I will tell you, and only you, Zoe. Can I leave you the responsibility of communicating my situation to them? You're far better at making a good impression than me._

_That'll take care of them,_ he thought inattentively, pausing to think.

_I took lyrium. My withdrawals are not a problem for now. I know where to get more if I need it. I hope you are not ashamed of me. I swear I stayed off the stuff as long as I could, but the night I saw you my brain said goodbye. It scared me. More than I could manage. But now it's okay._

_Do you remember the person I told you about who would help me? Her name is Faith. She was a Templar in the Circle when Guylian was still around, but works in the Rose now. I have been living in her house. I don't know what is different about it, but I feel like I'm at home there, Zoe –even if I miss the Gallows food, the bed… and my friends. In case you didn't already think of it, I don't think telling Phillipa and Cullen about her is a good idea._

_I've found mercenary work, though I won't say where. Nothing bad though. It's alright._

_I have been thinking a lot about my purpose. I haven't found the gold on it yet but I didn't want to leave you with nothing. There are mercenary jobs I like. They are similar to the letters, Templar work and the Guard. I'll let you figure out what that means. Phillipa and I can race on who rediscovers their purpose first._

_I keep thinking about how you must have looked when you cried, and I am truly sorry for it. I wish I could make it better, but the wish is hardly worth anything. Prove me wrong, if you will. But I changed my mind about something. If I hear you've been missing me, I will have trouble staying a gentleman. Interpret that however you like, but let that be a warning. I already told you it is not worth caring about me. I meant it._

_I hope this letter restores some of your confidence in me, although I am expecting the worst. Call me pathetic if you like, Zoe. I won't blame you._

_As I said when we last met, visit if you need. I'm round the Docks most days. Or just around. We might knock into each other by accident._

_Post your response to the Blooming Rose. Forward it to Olina. I'll drop past every few days to check it is there._

_Keep being special,_

_Samson_

He hoped the situation with his friends could turn around, though he was left with unease, and it wasn't from lyrium, any of the women he cherished, the philosophical debate with an Orlesian or any letters.

Samson couldn't figure out if he was more bothered, disappointed, or surprised that no inspiration came on how to write to Cullen.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Thank you Flaminea for proof reading. In previous chapters I have centered letters. I hope it doesn't bother anyone too much that the formatting is different here.


	22. Sacrificium - Sacrifice

He looked down at the new keys with incertitude. The surface was untarnished, with nothing etched to identify them as his.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The blade hit the chopping board with a thump, perhaps louder than Samson expected. He placed the keys on the kitchen bench top and scrubbed vegetables in the sink, feeling like they never became clean enough.

"Did you not have a good day?" Samson said.

Faith shrugged. "New workers."

"They stupid?"

"The opposite," she said shortly, "intelligent enough to be deceitful."

"You don't think they're just worked up like you are?" Samson pressed.

Faith shook her head, focused on food preparation. "Are you determining a niche with your work?"

"Slowly," Samson replied shortly. All placidity trickled down his hands like the sullied water in the sink. Faith had a date planned with the sadistic wank blockhead of a prick."Meeran said he'd meet you at The Broken Spine tomorrow at 18 00."

_Zoe's tavern,_ was all he could think. The idea made him sick. If something was to go wrong, maybe Zoe would find out and she'd hate him forever. Everything felt so unstable. Maybe he'd be given less work anyway, regardless of the outcome.

Faith didn't seem bothered, so he prompted, "You're going to trust him?"

She shook her head as if 'no' was too much effort. "You'll be a distant spectator."

"_That's_ your plan?"

"Would you prefer I went by myself?"

Samson grumbled, knowing the answer was 'no'. The possessiveness for her returned, a vice too shameful to voice, though it was quickly forgotten.

_Meeran never got any keys! _

Then he realized something he had never told her. In fact, he never made a point of telling anyone. If she was going to etch a letter on these keys like she had with the old ones, he wanted her to know his full name, and mark himself above the apostate she had known previously.

"Did you know my first name is actually Raleigh?" Samson inquired, slowly.

Faith appeared distant. "Why did you lie to me?"

"Not to you- for as long as I can remember I went by last name."

"Do you dislike your given name?"

Samson nodded, and tried to make sense of the logic of his child self. "I think because of the way my parents said it."

"Yes?"

Bringing the vague echo of the sound to mind, he realized they pronounced it normally.

"I don't know how else to explain it," he said slowly, "so… Meeran."

Faith sighed. "What did he tell you?"

"Don't matter," Samson said, "I want your story."

She frowned. "I did say I'd explain today, but I don't feel prepared to right now. Meeran is worrying me, and so is the Carta. Once those are managed, I can explain."

"I get it." Samson said with a nod, unsure if he was disappointed or not. He didn't really want to think about Meeran anymore either. "Who's these dodgy new ones at the Rose then?"

* * *

After the meal, he changed into his armour and retrieved his sword. Turning around, he watched her tie her hair up with a small rope.

In slightly dented and scratched bronze armour, Faith had never looked less like herself, but neither was that unwelcome or unappreciated. She could have been mistaken for a Grey Warden perhaps, one that commanded many. The insinuation of power was rousing. His passion soared as fire from a trebuchet, unyielding yet focused. He wanted to take her right there and then, and he almost felt his pupils enlarge as he met her eyes.

"You look like you belong in a tavern," Samson remarked, his words flourishing with admiration.

"Thank you," Faith responded. Her face didn't change, although her voice echoed curiosity. She picked out the pouch with far too much money from her pillow case and stepped to him, avoiding his stare. "Eindride will be meeting with us. He's managed the payment of my lyrium batches for the past eight years, but that doesn't mean I am trustworthy in his eyes. Trust to the Carta means you avoid carnage. He… favours a punitive outlook. Therefore I must stress that you listen to me under all circumstances and behave."

If his suspicion was correct, speaking to the Carta was like talking to Meeran and Lilley at once, which had the potential for murder or deception. The images of what he'd seen and did on those first few shifts flashed by and he focused on Faith to detract them.

"I have an idea of the kind of person he is," Samson admitted, "Am I allowed to strike if he steps where he don't belong?"

"No," Faith replied, "The Carta know too many. Your death would be guaranteed in retaliation, even mine, maybe the lives of those you care for. If it was as simple as spilling their blood and walking away Meeran wouldn't still be standing."

Faith knew better than he did when it came to this, and Samson wanted to stay in this house. He wanted her to need him there. Helping maintain her steady supply of lyrium would make him important.

"How do I make a good impression?"

"Blend in, be distant," Faith said smoothly, "The Carta, generally speaking, aren't always satisfied with a monetary exchange when new business partners are introduced. Ewan introduced me to them ten years ago, and I slowly assimilated myself into their organizational hierarchy. The bastard I met is long gone now, though he and two others wanted to ensure I would have a regular income with the Rose. They wanted to know I was good at my job, that it was a consistent, long term solution, so they asked me to perform a service of their choosing, even if I was only cheap service at the time. I succeeded, though the memory is emotionally detached from me now."

"Ewan didn't care?"

"Yes, but he had to stand back and act as nonchalant as the others."

"What do you reckon this dwarf will want of me?"

"I wish I could say I could guess, though I am not sure. We will have to improvise. I have built myself a reputation with Eindride. He tolerates me because in his presence, I mimic his punishing, ruthless demeanour. I intend to persuade him to tolerate you through association with me."

The way Faith was avoiding his eye was disturbing.

"You'll hurt me to get on the Carta's good side?" Samson clarified, uncertainly.

For a fraction of a second, Faith's eyes darted to his. "I hope not, though it depends. That is why I urge you to behave while we are around him. Will you?"

Samson hesitated. Faith could ask him to kill or hurt somebody, possibly her, maybe even himself. She was asking him to lay aside his conscience and mind again, to be a puppet, to be _her_ puppet. Fresh to the mercenary trade, he was capable of this. He'd done it for Meeran, someone he respected a lot less. Even though the will to trust was higher, the stakes were greater. The potential for ruin was a deep well where mental turmoil stirred. Already Faith's eyes were devoid of compassion.

"Yes."

Samson was surprised when she splayed open his fingers and placed the pouch full of her riches in it.

"While this is in your hands, I trust it with you," she said, "that is the only time it is yours."

It was heavy, too heavy. Samson nodded and decided it was best to put it in his leather satchel. Faith filled a sac with the now empty glass vials and jars, grabbed a lantern, and went to the door with the grace of a ghost.

"Let's head out then."

* * *

The walk was silent, and Samson tried to guess where the Carta would be. It was dark by now. The sky speckled with stars, but they emulated the eyes of wolves stalking their prey. The one lantern they had to guide them had a thick animal skin covering it for now, meaning that they could find their way without much notice. They halted at a dead end in Darktown, though Faith kicked some dirt and weeds from the ground beneath her like a complex puzzle which opened to a hatch. From this distance, it looked like it could have gone a foot down.

"There aren't pipes down there?" he inquired.

Faith shook her head. "Ask questions in a moment."

After her, with difficulty, Samson plunged his boots into the darkness, searching for the cracked, broken stairs Faith had used. The passage was muggy as the only light was down below where Faith stood. She had put the animal skin covering in the sac. It smelt damp, of soot and chemicals where the mud levelled out. From the vague light, it was clear they were in a tunnel, an immensely sophisticated one with stone walls and smoothed flooring.

Samson thought aloud, "I thought lyrium addicts made these?"

Faith snorted. "Gallows rumour. Lyrium addicts would have no reason to build these. These were most likely built by Tevinter slaves during the Ancient Age rebellion." She stepped forward. "The tunnels form a labyrinth. They go all over the city, possibly to other cities. Without one's own light source and directions, visitors get lost and die. The knowledge of these passageways is learned by word of mouth and memorizing landmarks, not by written word, and certainly not by maps."

Samson didn't answer. This sounded rational enough. It was eerie to think about. "You don't like using a sword?"

"I wanted to leave the Circle behind me," Faith said. She showed him two daggers, the same ones she hid with her in the Blooming Rose, "Ewan taught me how to fight with these. Blades were his weapon of choice."

Samson shrugged. Daggers would feel outlandish in his hands, and he preferred to stick to his skills. "I don't want to forget the Gallows. Not all of it."

"It is because you still have friends there."

"Maybe," the former Templar admitted, remembering Zoe, Maddox, Phillipa, but also Cullen…. and how his old roommate would hate him for doing this.

As they paced, Faith examined every wall like trying to decide if she wanted to buy it. She pointed out markings to Samson on the walls and said she'd write it down. Maybe five or ten minutes later, she stopped in the middle of the pit, like she'd heard something.

"Good evening," said a smooth voice from behind them, "formidable Adessi."

Running on nothing but instinct, Faith and Samson spun around with a shriek of silver and had their weapons pointed down at the dwarfs face, who had a mace elevated, too close for comfort. The Carta member wore a chainmail hood to shadow his face. Samson noticed a glass eye.

"Put the toy down, Eindride," Faith instructed, "This is my captive. Say hello to Samson. He will be picking up my orders in future."

_Captive…_ Samson almost smirked, _that's a novel improvisation._

Eindride eyed Samson with an incomprehensible expression. Unsure of what former Templar was expected to do, he banged the dwarf's weapon aside with his own and noted, "Your welcomes could use some work."

"Your captive is vicious," Eindride stepped to the side, eyeing Samson, who didn't lower his sword, "you better keep his tongue in check if you want this arrangement to be tolerated."

Faith replied suavely, "I agree."

In a swift movement, Faith kicked the back of Samson's knees. She spoke with the voice of the Lyrium Queen.

"Kneel," she directed.

The man took an indignant look at the woman, but she was a dark mass of shadow, lit only by what flicker remained of the lanterns. He didn't appreciate the lack of warning, still, Samson did as she asked, wanting to anger the dwarf, though resisting.

_Settle down._

Samson lowered his gaze to the pavement, his armour pressing into his knees, allowing his resolve to simmer.

_It doesn't matter what it means,_ he told himself,_ you are a puppet, a very good prisoner. Faith's captive. You follow orders without hesitation. _

His blood boiled. This wasn't the same as listening to Meeran. Samson wanted to be the sole captive of Faith's, the _only_ one she would torture. The lyrium was _theirs_.

It was impossible to guess what was going to happen next. Faith paced to him and stood right next to the dwarf. That wasn't the terrible part. She grabbed her blade with one hand and used it to guide Samson's face upward. He saw the end of her chin, that stern nose, her even crueller bosom.

"Open," she said.

_What in the Maker is this about? _

The question only intensified his voracity to win her trust. Beneath her, unarmed, in such an easy position to be killed, Samson never doubted Faith's intentions more, but he stood firm, determined to be hers. Her gaze was unforgiving, like the blizzard of a deadly winter. He tried to read Faith, but found he wasn't able to. He never could. Lilley couldn't. Meeran couldn't.

Reluctantly, Samson opened his mouth.

One of her blades pointed into his neck and pressed gently as the test of a needle. His breathing hollowed, trying not to slip even half an inch and cut himself. Now he could see her eyes, closer. They were empty, left with nothing. Not a hint of sympathy or humanity. Lyrium hadn't, _couldn't_ have done that. But he was a willing host.

That's when Faith dug her other blade firmly into his tongue, making him lose sense of where it started and ended. The world became extinct. His scream was shortly lived. Cut off by her blade, it morphed into a noiseless shriek. There was no telling. It was just pain, like the worst of his withdrawal compressed in one spot. In recoiling, he also accidentally cut the insides of his mouth with the blade, unable to form words. He tasted the metallic of blood and saw it drip onto the pavement. In disorientation, the first blade sliced into his neck, a raw stinging line.

He kneeled over as if he'd been kicked in the gut. The groans rumbled from his throat, unfocused and droning like a creaking boat. He heard a rattle.

Faith's hands, now free of the blades, grabbed onto his.

"Hold your tongue," she instructed.

As the blood pooled in his mouth, Samson thought he could survive a Joining, and come out a fierce warrior, but his trust for Faith was wavering and incredibly weak, a branch about to splinter.

The world was either completely black or flashing with the colors of agony. It was impossible to tell.

With trembling fingers, he tried to find his tongue and held the stinging line closed.

_And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten._

His feelings were lustful, vengeful and greedy. Meeran couldn't have her. That mage prick better be dead or never return. Lilley should kill herself in the Gallows cell. Faith was _his_ as much as he was _hers_, and no one was allowed to take it away. For their arrangement to be tolerated, he had to listen.

Cautiously, he lifted his tongue and realized there was no weapon there anymore. His stomach lurched at the sensation of his tongue being partially fragmented open in the middle.

_Bleeding purgatory of Andraste._

He closed his mouth before he vomited at the thought.

"I don't think he will cause us any trouble," the dwarf said, but Samson got the impression that perhaps he'd missed part of the conversation. He couldn't –didn't want to see anything.

"If he does, you speak only to me of it," Faith said. Her voice was further away. "I will penalize him."

Withstanding the agony in Samson's mouth, a triumphant roar rumbled inside his mind. He had won.

Fuck, his tongue caned.

The Carta would trust him. Faith would trust him with her coin, with her lyrium. He'd be invincible with lyrium. She didn't trust easily.

Piss, it hurt so much.

He was a rare, special prisoner.

Maker, fuck this pain.

Faith was so _cruel_ to do this. She was so cruel. But he had won her trust. Samson could do anything!

"Yes, yes, pretty Adessi," The dwarf said, dismissively, "Do you have coin with you?"

"Samson has it."

There was a tap on his armour. Eyes half closed, or perhaps fully closed, colour flashing, the man loosely grasped his satchel, took out the pouch and pushed it forward on the ground. He heard the clatter of coin, like Faith had done the previous night, counting. Bringing that memory to mind was so easy. The feeling he recalled the most was being unseen.

"Would you like to change your order?" the dwarf asked, "If you do, we need the extra coin in advanced… just to ensure we can secure it."

"Samson will meet you here in a week's time."

"No, Adessi," Eindride retorted, "If you want to order any differently, you say and pay so now. I didn't cross half of Kirkwall for nothing."

Samson swallowed the blood in his mouth and felt light headed, clammy and weak. They hadn't thought this far ahead. Faith had just given up every piece of gold she owned, and they couldn't split it between them. Not for long. They'd be withdrawal, pain and suffering.

Faith had been silenced.

"I'll confirm no changes are to be made to the order?"

Samson continued to groan from the pain and nausea. His mind was a haze of only wanting the agony to end. To make it stop this had to get organized.

_Yes lyrium… for sharing... _

There was no logic, only compulsion. He picked out the coin he had just earned for the day, let it fall in front of him and pressed it away like something rotten. Then, he lifted his sword with sweaty hands and pushed it toward the dwarf.

"A' much a' dis will o'wer," he mouthed, his speech incomprehensible. A scraping pierced his ears as Eindride picked up the weapon and examined it.

"This will get you five vials," he decided.

_Only five?_ Samson thought absently, bringing his fingers back to his wound. Was this good or bad? He continued to get dizzier.

"Thank you," Faith said calmly, "Then you will meet Samson the same time as usual from next week?"

"Yes," Eindride said, "and your dear human better be here on time."

As the quiet thump of boots was gone (as much as Samson could tell in his draining consciousness), he spat out blood onto the dirt and gawped for air that didn't taste like iron. His head was so light it was like someone had poured his brain down into his intestines, and he couldn't stay kneeling like this forever. Hardly knowing what was up or down, the constraints of the world fading, he lowered his head and let everything go limp. His heart had slid down into his empty skull, bashing on it.

"Samson?" the voice was hesitant, but distant like calling from the other end of the tunnels, "Are you deaf? Get up."

He tried to say _No, you don't need me,_ but all that came out was a weird groaning sound. It was familiar, and somewhat comforting to have her pull on his shoulder. He didn't feel grand anymore. It didn't feel like it was a magnificent joy to be hers. He was in withdrawal again, dying.

"Samson. I can't carry you. I'm not strong enough." There was panic in her voice now, but it couldn't be hers. Faith didn't get scared. "I need you to listen. Move. Move! Grab my arm."

The ground was so nice and cold. Why did he have to move? He grumbled again and felt her arm touch his forehead. It was too painful.

"Grab my arm, Samson!"

_You're her puppet. Listen. _

Tired, he inattentively reached for her arm with one hand and forced himself to his feet with the other, allowing his wounds to spill. His legs were working, at least, but his head wasn't. Like stirring from sleep, it was dark, he stumbled for a moment, but a hand quickly held him steady. She was… he thought someone had spoken to him like this once, maybe in a dream or in a forgotten memory, unable to place it. He… liked it.

They started stumbling in an unknown direction.

Samson squinted, as though expecting a blinding light, although there was nothing.

"Wahr oz dat?"

His mind was not a mind anymore, but a torrent of the Fade's doing. He almost heard the singing again, though didn't know why.

"Shut up," Faith said. The words were harsh but lacked the spite she was known for. It was a different emotion. Again, he couldn't place it, but it spoke to his fear and hushed it. The steps were broken by Samson spitting blood out, or letting it dribble wherever it was going. He returned his fingers to the cuts, stemming them, but it was like his fingers didn't want to close.

He didn't remember how he managed to get back up that terrible staircase. The antithesis of a terrible wooziness prevented him from focusing on where he was or what Faith was saying.

* * *

When the two entered the house, a hush inundated him. Samson tried not to complain, but he couldn't feel his legs. He swayed on one spot and heard himself moaning.

Faith brought him to the bed and sat him down, putting the lantern on the bed side table.

"Wait there," she said, "I have a numbing potion and I need to stitch you."

"Wha'd say?"

Why did he need stitches?

The woman leaved and returned twice with a number of devices: bandages, a large flask of a potion, a small shot glass, a bucket full of water and a needle and thread. As she touched his jawline, he groaned from pain and relief.

"Please drink the numbing potion. I'm going to sew the wounds on your tongue," she advised him, "I'll do the bandages for your neck first. I'm then going to wash your mouth out and sterilize it before doing the work."

Samson made an incoherent sound and held out a hand to show that he could drink the numbing potion on his own.

"I'll give you double," she said, carefully measuring a shot glass worth, "at worse, it will numb your whole face and neck."

Confused and disorientated, the ex-Templar wasn't going to complain. The first part of this day was listening to Faith count coins. It was unnerving.

"Fai'd."

"What is it?" Faith asked, reaching for some bandages.

"Meeran…" Samson swallowed some blood, "Meeran sade I am ore target."

"Meeran is a liar," Faith said. "What I did back there was for our safety. I had to do it so they don't hurt you worse. They shouldn't bother us anymore."

"Esplaine please. Why oo care abou' me?"

"Stay still while I stich your wound…."

She held one bit of bandage in place and slowly wrapped it around his neck, trying not to make it too tight.

"Twy esplaine." Samson spat out more blood (he had no idea where it went), "Den ey he 'ay dat?"

He let his chin fall to his chest. He couldn't keep himself upright anymore, struggling to hear. She tucked the bandage in. He held his tongue with his fingers as she replied.

"Stop talking until I've finished this."

Was her voice trembling?

"You're no target," Faith said solemnly, "You are… my friend."

It wasn't clear if the sentence was finished or not, it wasn't specified just how much beyond a target Samson was, but the woman stopped talking. The time when their bodies were intertwined wasn't a mistake. She remembered it too.

Smiling made his face feel squashed, so he spat out blood on the floor. "After I've sowed it I'll go find a friend to buy some better potions," Faith said darkly, "but this is the best I have on hand."

"A'right."

Samson forced his head up and drank the numbing potion, blood dripping onto his chin. He was so light headed he couldn't even make a sound of relief when his pain disappeared, and like Faith said, the effects spread to half way down his neck, although strangely enough his scalp wasn't affected.

"This one next," Faith said, pushing a cup of salted water toward him. Samson gargled it and spat it out. It still stung quite a lot, but it wasn't unbearable. He let his head go limp.

"No…." Faith moaned, and she lifted his head and leaned it back, splashing salty water on the blood left on his neck. When that was done she pried open his mouth, "Don't bite my fingers."

It was a painful and arduous process. By the time it was over, his mouth was sterilized again, Samson tried to talk but he couldn't form a single word. _Fuck._

Faith helped him get out of his armour and into his sleep wear. She asked him to rest upright on the bed while she was gone. So he did. She left.

He lost track of how much time passed when she was out and forgot where she said she was going. In a woozy emptiness, he didn't think of anything either. His thoughts languidly returned once Faith came back with a potion for inflammation. When he finished drinking the portion she measured, she had changed into her night clothes. Because of her _improvising_, he couldn't talk and was in pain.

He wanted to scream at her, demand an explanation, but what ruptured forth was like tearing a message into pieces. The page did not create a line through the middle, though it was obvious that the disruption was artificially created. The words no longer formed words, but phonemes, the basic fragments of sound. They were reduced to animals evading the rain, the most vulnerable of creatures, at risk of the harshest disease.

Samson drew lines in the air and then on his palm, trying to say 'get me a paper', 'please retrieve me a quill'. Faith did, promptly, without further question. When she placed it in his hand she was covered by shadow. The man placed the parchment on his thigh and hunched over, shielding his cursive with his other arm. Faith watched, looking perplexed. He wasn't certain why he was hiding. She was going to read it anyway. There was something very private about the process of organizing his thought that he did not want others to see. The ritual of making mistakes could not be witnessed by other people.

The quill punctured the paper a number of times, every few words, though he finally managed to exemplify a thought he found important.

He showed it to her. She took the page from his fingers and looked at it, squinting a little to read it in such a faint light. Then she took one look at him, one of antipathy, scrunched the parchment into a ball and placed it in front of his mouth, as if it was a bone for a mule. When he looked back at it, and did nothing, she flicked it into his face, where it tumbled sadly onto the floor.

"Do you think I like this?" she murmured, "Do you think I _enjoyed_ hurting you?!"

Samson wasn't sure anymore. He shrugged.

"How can you think that?!" she demanded, "I told you before we left that I didn't want to."

Somewhere, he knew his feelings of betrayal were deceiving him, though the note hadn't been about her. He had been writing in relation to himself.

Sluggishly, he picked up his note again, unraveled it and started to convey this. The point of the quill punctured the paper five more times.

Faith was very angry, yet she waited. Before he could finish the reply she got up from the bed. By the looks of things, she was headed to the kitchen, possibly the cabinet.

_No_! He wanted to shout, but he merely spoke in unintelligible sounds. Rising to his feet and stumbling, he staggered over, the room wobbling as all the blood rushed to his feet.

"Go away!" she snapped. He rested for a moment against the kitchen bench, but he felt so light headed his knees were bent and he couldn't determine where the soles of his feet were.

In his head he said a perfect 'no' but he wasn't sure how it sounded to her. The clink of glass entered his ears. Forcing his eyes to stay open, he kicked back a foot and hit the bench.

"Stop!" Faith ordered, "Go back to bed, and let me have some space. Let me be on my own...let me-"

The cabinet clicked shut.

"_No_," Samson groaned, and spotting her, he pushed against the bench and used the rest of his strength to reach her and grab her night dress. He tugged, to pull her back in the opposite direction.

"Leave me alone!" Faith shouted, but her voice was getting weaker. "Just let me deal with this. I need to take it. I have to. I need to."

_That's not what we agreed to!_ He protested in his head_, it isn't what you want and you know it! _

Grousing aimlessly, like he had the flu, Samson reached around from behind her, grabbed her forearms and tugged down. If she had a vial in her hands, he had to stop her from drinking it. She fought against him.

"Samson!" she screamed, trying to throw him off, "Stop it!"

Instead of shaking his head, he used his entire body weight to sway her gently from one side to the other, saying no.

"You irksome-" Faith kicked behind her, "What can you do? You don't trust me, you don't believe me, you don't-"

He felt her pull up against his arms, and he heard the glass rattle in her hands. She was losing this struggle. Or perhaps he was.

Doing all he could to distract her he groaned, bucked her closer against his hips, and used the remaining force to shake her arms, as though if he did it enough times she would wake up.

Rattling filled the air for so many moments Samson almost blinked asleep, but he kept close. In his state of mild delirium, of this drunken, injured way, he focused on how she felt against him. His body, behaving strangely from the depletion of blood, instinctively woke his manhood. The desire was not sex. The craving was to be entirely in the moment and not free her to be with the lyrium.

The movement slowed. Faith's voice was trembling.

"Let go."

Samson shook his head against her, like she was a pillow.

"You can't help me!" she shrieked, "I need it and I am too distraught to think. I need something. I need something I can only find in a vial."

Samson sighed and pushed his manhood against her, like his cock was a pacifier. Faith tugged against his arms one more time and he tried to stop her. He tried to stop her but he was too weak. A scraping made him flinch and then a banging sound replaced it. Bang. Bang. Faith was hitting her arms against the kitchen bench, like trying to force open a particularly nettlesome casing, using Samson's body weight to amplify the force.

"Stop," he grumbled. He pulled her back again. Faith went with it and her feet disappeared from underneath her. Taken aback, they both crashed erroneously onto the floor, barely bracing the fall.

Everything rang and hurt. Now Samson's wrists felt twisted too. Fortunately, his head had taken little impact.

It took a while until the aftermath of falling passed, for the vibrations of the floor to stop pounding through his head and the surrounds. When it did, Samson thought he was positioned somewhat diagonally to Faith. Her weight was against him but he couldn't tell how. From the lack of clinking glass, Faith had placed the flasks down at some point.

"I thought you would understand," she muttered from vaguely left, in front half a meter, "I thought you knew what… I thought… I didn't…"

His arm numb, Samson stroked what he could reach of her. It might have been a leg or her waist. He hummed or mumbled something, not knowing what tune it was, a melody designed to sedate her. Faith tried to move away from him again but he grabbed whatever he could, unable to identify it. After more pulling and shoving, she went limp and groaned. He felt her move, and then she was straddling him. Then her breasts lightly nudged against his chest.

"I can't believe you don't understand me," she muttered again. Her hair tickled his face. He pushed it out of the way so it was behind her. He liked how her skin felt more. So he trailed his thumbs back from her ears to either side of her nose, and let her hair go everywhere again like it didn't matter. As though trying to create a tactile representation of her in his mind, he continued to trace her face, running the pads of his fingers over the surface.

_I do understand_, is what he wanted to say. His swollen throat and tongue wouldn't allow it. Faith pulled her hair back behind her and twisted it into a knot, for it stopped tickling him.

He felt droplets of water creep into his fingertips, dribble over his knuckles, gather in a line against the length of his touch like a drain catching it. In silence, without knowing why, he brought those tear stained fingers of his into his mouth, tasted and consumed the salt. So disconnected from coherence, no rationality blessed him on why he felt at ease swallowing her sadness, like to satisfy some concupiscent urge to know what her emotions tasted like. Somewhere he felt like he was holding her, so near there was no space for disillusionment. Somehow, he was deep within the crux of her affliction, whereas their bodies were disunited by clothing. Then he brought his fingers back to her face and caressed her cheeks, very slowly, spreading spit back onto her. She leaned a bit closer.

Faith's breathing changed. She sounded calmer, for a time. It was like everything was better, like the need for lyrium had left her. But that wasn't true. He ran his fingers to her closed eyelids as her breathing became spasmodic, faster. Eventually he languorously rest his hands down to her thighs, but only found one of her hands. It wasn't until she started to irregularly writhe her hips against him did Samson recognize that she was masturbating on top of him. He was so drained, aching and exhausted, he couldn't interpret the experience in any meaningful fashion, only listened passively like it was noise of the ocean, couldn't tell if she orgasmed quicker than normal or not. What he liked the most was when she curled up beside him and said, "Thank you." Like he had been inside her, for a sense of accomplishment and emotional gratification lulled him, a particular brand of catharsis and ablution. He kissed the back of her head and held her very tightly, as though suspecting she may disappear again. She couldn't have the lyrium until morning. They needed to work together. By some functional oddity, he became aware of his semi-hardened cock against her again, but he didn't need any release. He didn't feel like anything about the moment had to change. By the fact Faith didn't pursue to pleasure him, but instead seemed to be pinching parts of her arms, he thought she knew it as well.

What was written in the note was forgotten for now, but would be forever a poison in their minds, a question that begged for an answer.

_When does a 'character', I mean some pretense, become real? _

_I wasn't talking about…_

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Thanks to Flaminea for proof reading. I changed the second half of this chapter. It's amazing what a few months away from a chapter can do. Please rate and review. I'd love to know your thoughts.


	23. Abdicatio II - Renunciation

Perhaps due to over exhaustion or the pain killers, Samson slept in the next day. When he woke, Faith was not there and the house felt hot from the sun blaring against the curtains. His face no longer felt squashed and puffy, though numbness remained over splotches of his face and neck. He was able to speak, as garbled as it was. He didn't have a weapon, and he doubted Meeran would lend him one like on his first job. He needed money for a sword, had no idea how to get it, and then Faith was meeting Meeran. The chances of being taunted were so high, he did not want to go visit the Red Iron leader today anyhow.

A letter from Faith was on the table, held down with a shot glass of lyrium and the potion from last night to help with inflammation.

_Samson, _

_Please drink these and I will see you here at 17 30. _

_F_

He swallowed each potion in quick succession, not waiting long for the aftertaste to fade from his mouth. Faith had provided no instructions on what he was expected to do with the day.

_That woman doesn't even make sense in writing! _

A temptation rose to write to Maddox, to receive an impassionate perspective on recent events- but how could he when Maddox could tell Cullen or the Knight-Commander?

_Pfff, Knight-Captain,_ Samson screwed up his nose at the name, _more like Kiss-my-Arse Captain._

But the house was empty, and he wanted more lyrium than what he'd downed from Faith's shot glass. Maker he needed it, but he battled against himself. There had to be an alternative.

Faith's presence calmed him. Samson peered over at her wardrobe curiously. Maybe something of hers would remind him of her and soothe him… or was that because the sharp trace of lyrium was cast over her?

Like he used to when he opened the bedside drawers, he stepped over to her side of the bed. Samson linked his fingers through the sleeve of Faith's cherry and gold nightdress, thrown haphazardly over her pillow, feeling dirty as he did so.

He was allowed to look. He was _hers_. Lilley knew what _all_ her clothes looked like. That thief understood information about Faith he didn't. Jealousy stabbed him.

_It's just clothes, one pair of a woman's clothes. She left it there to be looked at. The dress craves attention too._

Bringing the fabric close to his face, he breathed in through his nose. The scent was immediate: dust, Faith's sweat, power, a sharp, unmistakable vapour. _Lyrium_. He recalled when she had washed herself in the tub after the lyrium effects had subsided and that she scented even less like lyrium then. That was all Faith, her tears, her sadness. Grief smelled clean and untainted. The blue potion on the other hand…

Hoping that her clean clothes would distract him more effectively, he pulled open her wardrobe. The lyrium lingered in the stale air of the wardrobe, a small neglectful taste of it. She didn't have many more outfits than he did. She had corsets, older ones, slightly fraying, in bronze, ocean blue, in white and violet; stockings, some torn; skirts, as delicate as the corsets; a shawl; knickers, most elegant, some old, some with old stains of blood. The man ran his fingers over the varieties of fabric, feeling a shiver go down his spine. Voluptuous textures or from an unwholesome thrill, it felt good.

_White on the top, long sleeves, dark brown around the waist, _Lilley said in his mind, _gold for the lower part._

Determined to get the full mental image of Faith, Samson examined each of her dresses with careful fingers, he searched, not caring much for the others. He needed _that_ one.

It was at the back of the cabinet, hard to find. She probably hated it, given the connotations. It seemed unusual that she had not disposed of it. Perhaps she never wore it. It looked like it didn't fit anymore, but Maker, it _was_ pretty. Not on its own, but on her it would be.

_Lilley took advantage of her in this_, he reminded himself. _Lilley took advantage of you with the memory of this bloody dress. _

But he needed the dress. It represented something about Faith that he had trouble understanding. This was her, a truer version of her soul. He took the dress into his arms and breathed it in.

_He imagined himself standing in The Silver Fountain with a glass in his hand, at the age he was currently. At one of the tables, he spotted the same electric blue eyes, softer skin. It was Faith, wrapped in a blanket, a picture of shattered virtue, failing trust in the world, losing faith for the Maker. No markings on her face, a gleam of innocence in her eyes. _

_He stopped and looked at her, feeling awkward, wondering what to do. Tentatively, Samson would approach her. "You alright there?"_

_The woman probably wouldn't do anything. If he was lucky she'd shake her head. Or maybe she was more honest in those days. He'd sit next to her and feel awkward there instead. Maybe, if she'd told him she was withdrawing from lyrium, he'd continue to stay where he was. He'd feel bad for her. Then he'd get angry._

"_It's not fair what happened to you," he said, "but I can keep you company if you like." _

_Faith would finally meet his eyes. By Andraste, she had amazing eyes. "I don't even know you." _

"_Guess not," his imaginary self would say, "but I feel like I know you." _

_Maybe she wouldn't answer. He sat nearer to her. "Is it nettlesome when lads try chat to you?" _

_Faith would maybe grouse, "What do you want?" _

"_To make you feel nicer, less rubbish," he managed, hesitating, "so I don't know, whatever that is." _

_The lucidity of his mind made the image of Faith say, "Can you love me?" and whether it was from wishful thinking or an interpretation of what he thought she might say was impossible. _

"_I don't know," he said blankly. "But if that's what you want, I hope so. What should I do?" _

_Faith put her head on the table. "Get away from me."_

His spine almost crushed. He understood. He already knew how she scented different to lyrium.

Musk. Smoke. Memories. Betrayal. Agony. Isolation.

_Blight take it,_ Samson thought, _did I get knocked on the head?_

Sometime during his fantasy he had picked up a pair of her knickers, one with the blood stains on them. This was so desperately wrong.

He folded the dress the way it was before and put the knickers away. None of this replicated fulfilment. It was a filthy trick.

Thinking about comforting Faith made him contemplate sex, and then that made him want lyrium. Then he retracted, searching for her behind the veil, and he spun in an absurd coil.

If Samson _had_ met Faith when she went to taverns, he couldn't have offered her a place to sleep. He had coin in those days. Maybe he'd feed her. Maybe he'd find her more clothes. But he would have been a teenager, training for full Templar duty. He wouldn't have set foot in a tavern.

The fight against lyrium was courageous, although there were many wounded when victory washed over him.

He closed the wardrobe door.

* * *

The lash of salty, turbulent air on his face as he jogged around the Wounded Coast masked the dull ache that the potion couldn't cure. He only slowed upon entering Hightown's Red Lantern District. Despite dreading checking with Olina for mail, he was surprised to already have an answer. Like before, he opened it in the room furthest away from where the Blooming Rose girls worked.

_Dear Samson, _

_Thank you for writing. _

_You either had a terrible quill or had a fit while you were writing. I could hardly read parts of it. Be glad I didn't ask Phillipa for assistance. Maddox was able to help instead. I think I am allowed to feel smug about that. _

_There's a lot I want to say and not enough time to convey it. I want to see you in person as soon as possible. How do I go about doing that?_

_Your friend,_

_Zoe_

It seemed unusual that a meeting in person was bad must have happened. He sipped at some water and swallowed with difficulty before answering.

_Zoe, _

_Is the Hanged Man alright? Pick a time and day. If it is too filthy we can make other arrangements when we get there. _

_With friendliness, _

_Samson _

Now there was another problem. He couldn't send the letter without any coin. Curse it all. No!

Instead, Samson did as he always did when there was nothing left to do. He went to fish at the Docks. Warren strolled past after twenty minutes or so and seemed very happy to see him.

"Hello Samson," he said. He smelt strongly of sewage, which made Samson question where the man had chosen to clean himself, "Did someone give you a wallop?"

Warran signaled to the bandages around Samson's neck, but it wasn't just Samson who didn't look good. Warren had a black eye.

"Someone did," he admitted, "but it doesn't matter. My void stomach is worse."

"Me too," Warren said, "I have a firesteel, and Sundermount has firewood. Have ya ever cooked 'round a camp fire?"

Despite knowing how to, Samson hadn't ever cooked outdoors, but it was obvious what the best choice here was. The former Templar reeled in his fishing rod, balanced it in the bucket and he got to his feet.

They didn't talk much until they reached the mountains and gathered kindling and firewood. As Warren lit a fire, Samson tried to scale the fish with a stick. There was no substitute for a knife.

"You were looking for work, weren't you? How is it?" Warren asked, as a small flame began to flicker in the small mound of kindling surrounded by sand.

"It's going," Samson said, "but in what direction is the Maker's trick."

"Yes. I introduced myself to Ginnis yesterday. She leads the Winters Mercenary group, but I haven't seen a ray of sunshine from her yet!"

"There's no sunshine in a Fereldan winter, right?" Samson guessed, "That's probably why."

Warran chuckled. "I want to figure out how to convince her I can do it, but that doesn't earn any coin."

Samson stopped scaling fish to blow on the fire, encouraging it higher. "Guess you're going to ask folk for it again?"

"I would gladly work back in Ferelden if I could," Warren said quickly.

"Settle down. I know you're looking, mate."

Samson felt saddened that his situation had not improved since a few nights ago. In fact, he was more like a refugee than a Kirkwall citizen at the moment. He still didn't have any coin in his pocket. Lilley had stolen his last pay, and Samson had given away the rest of it for lyrium… and his sword.

At the time donating his weapon made some kind of instinctual sense. Now he wished he hadn't been so stupid. If he had left just a _few_ gold or silver he could have bought something half-decent for lunch… well, have lunch in the first place. He could have given up some armour pieces which might be cheaper to replace. Instead he donated every piece like a barely conscious, wounded idiot. Faith hadn't stopped him. Perhaps she hadn't given the circumstances proper consideration either.

But it hadn't been entirely for nothing. Faith needed him to earn coin. She was more likely to share her lyrium stash now. As desperate as Samson was, considering how much of Faith's pay went towards her medicine and they were already going to be down on lyrium next month, chances of her giving him enough for a weapon were slim.

He peered at Warren, curiously. "How tiresome is it to ask for coin?"

Warren picked up Samon's bucket, lifted up a fish and speared it on a stick.

"It is the most difficult job I have ever done. Every time I feel worse and it becomes harder. It is like when I asked my wife to marry me, only if she said no a hundred times."

The former Templar felt saddened, even more by the look in the refugee's eyes. He had no understanding of what it was like to propose to somebody, though he understood the feeling of rejection. He knew he didn't like it. The last time they'd interacted he'd tried to help Warren feel better about his situation. Obviously Samson's words of inspiration had only done so much. He had to do more.

"You want some help?"

The hope in Warren's eyes glimmered like Samson had never seen before. "Would you?"

"We can sort out Ginnis another time. I might be able to find someone to give you some pointers," Samson admitted, "You're right. Sitting on my backside is doing as much as waiting for spindleweed to sprout from the Bone Pit."

It was fine. It was only for today…. until he earned enough for a sword. The two could search for work later.

"I'd think carefully before you try," Warren said defensively, "A bloke gave me this yesterday for no reason."

He pointed to his eye. Samson chuckled, sat closer to Warren and opened his mouth, exposing his stitches in more detail, lines and streaks of black.

"Blimey!" the refugee gasped. "Who in their right mind-"

"Injuries like this," Samson said, "and that, rarely shoot from the mind."

Warren looked confused, and Samson hardly understood either. He just knew it was true. The lyrium spoke it. He was just the messenger.

* * *

They went to Lowtown. According to Warren, those who risked walking near the refugees were usually nicer. Like most new ventures, the leap into the deep end was where the water was the coldest.

"Excuse me, any coin?"

_Urgh… how much more stupid can I sound? _

"Afraid not!"

Obviously the passers-by he was asking agreed that his word choice could be better.

"Good afternoon. Sorry to be a bother, I'm trying to help my friend…"

The person walked away.

_Shit! I'm not even trying to lie! What by the void?_

Warren had been right. Asking for coin was intimidating, and tiresome, more mentally than physically. The worst was the desire for lyrium prodded at him with every ignored reaction. The lyrium would make it better, it would make him stronger. He would be able to read the other person's mind and know exactly what to say. Not now.

After he'd pocketed a few bronze and a gold coin, Samson spotted someone in the crowd he had all forgotten about in the stress of his day, a man that most in Kirkwall seemed to associate him with: Cullen.

The Knight-Captain had a look of determination on his sturdy, hardened jaw, eyes fixed on the path in front, probably seeking a mage to bring to the Gallows, perfectly feeding into the chaos and the corrupted system without meaning to.

Samson lowered his eyes to somewhere further away and stepped in the opposite direction, praying his old roommate hadn't seen him.

_Get away, get away,_ he begged. _Maker save me, I'd rather ask for coin for the rest of the evening than have Rutherford recognize me. _

For all the resentment that had grown for Cullen over the few days, fear poisoned his gut. He didn't want Chandler's words to be true. Memories of Cullen gave him comfort sometimes. It wouldn't be right if all the remaining warmth disappeared. He still _wanted_ Cullen's respect.

"Hello, Samson?"

That voice. No mistaking it.

Samson cautiously looked over his shoulder, and his mind silenced completely upon meeting his brother's regard. Cullen stepped toward him, either looking cautious or curious.

"A friend of yours?" Warren muttered.

Samson waved a hand, not wanting to talk about it, keeping his eyes on Cullen. He looked healthy… and like he'd been concentrating a lot, just the same as before. Somehow Samson's appearance always had to change when meeting his friends, a nasty coincidence. Hopefully the Templar hadn't seen Samson requesting money. He didn't want to make his chances of losing respect worse.

"Are you well?" Cullen continued, "I was starting to become concerned you were a floating ghoul out here… wondering if you had died."

Cullen gave a short chuckle; one that was sick and short lived. Was Cullen laughing at him?

The comment was odd. Zoe had answered his letter, so she must have told Cullen _something_… unless she didn't. She didn't specify. Perhaps she had avoided a conversation entirely. Or even worse, maybe Cullen hadn't cared enough to ask.

His annoyance intensified likes the sun rays departing the comfort of a cloud.

"Can't you recognize a ghost, brother?" Samson mused, "Or maybe someone needs to screw your head back on tighter."

He tried to smile, though he suspected it was a smirk.

"I doubt a real apparition of you would attempt humour," Cullen pointed out, "maybe after the fact, but not as a welcome." The Templar gave a shrewd smile. "I can see you've, uh… made trouble for yourself."

"I haven't," Samson shot back, feeling defensive. All the peculiar folk he had gotten mixed up with –Meeran, Faith, the Carta– it was all for survival, not trouble. He wasn't a predator like Lilley. He didn't do it on purpose to twist emotions, like Meeran.

"If I didn't know any better I'd hazard a guess that someone tried to separate your neck from your head," Cullen said, moving so they were inches close, "Have you made enemies this rapidly? And are those _stitches_ inside of your mouth?"

"Very good guess, Knight-Captain," Samson growled, feeling more an animal than a person. Why did Cullen have to question him so much? Cullen had no right! "Your eyesight is as sharp as ever."

"And _I_ don't recall you having such a punishing attitude," Cullen shot back, eying Samson with scrutiny, "Who did it? Did you… somehow – did _you_ do it?"

In a whirlpool of emotion, Samson let out a bark of laugh. "You truly think I did this to _myself_, brother?"

"You were the one who thought slitting your wrists upon leaving the Circle was a noble idea," Cullen said carefully, "Suggesting you would think about it is not that absurd a notion. I do not forget what you say so easily, brother."

"I did none of this."

"Are you _well_?" Cullen repeated firmly, a hint of tiredness in his eyes, "I have to admit, when Knight-Commander Meredith mentioned you were _fishing_ of all things -I will not trouble you by asking - I didn't realize she meant fishing in the allegorical sense - for _coin_."

Samson peered down at the bucket near him, the one that had been used for fish mere hours ago. There were a handful of bronze and silver pieces in there, Warren's doing, although Samson kept his earnings in his pocket.

"I am walking and breathing, aren't I?" Samson tested. Honestly, he'd had a good day up until now, but not every crossing of time was so kind. "I am enjoying myself well enough."

It was obvious. Cullen was judging him. Cullen thought he was pathetic for resorting to one of the lowest forms of earning coin. It wasn't his fault. The past few days had been challenging. Besides, he had the added benefit of helping a friend.

"This is enough for you," Cullen repeated. He sounded exasperated, "Very well. I'll ponder on how to phrase my questions more carefully in future." He paused, then added, "Have you not found _any_ work since the Guard?"

Zoe was supposed to make this conversation _easier_… maybe Cullen really didn't care.

"What do you think I'm risking my neck out here for?" Samson hissed; spit nearly flying from his mouth, "I _am_ working."

Cullen let out a sigh, and squeezed Samson's arm tight. "I am sorry, brother. I must go. I'll speak to you again when you are feeling… a bit better – less grouchy. Please be careful."

He turned on his heel and paced away, as though late for meeting someone else, something more important – his work. As the armour clattered, Samson's heart billowed smoke, asphyxiating him, from the burn of the pure fury. Chandler was right. Cullen thought of him as useless dirt. He thought Samson was unable to think, incapable of making his own decisions. What piss. And Cullen was going to walk away, pretending nothing had happened?

Shaking from head to toe, Samson shouted after him. "YOU THINK I'M SICK, _BROTHER_?!"

The words erupted across the square, making the persons closest to them flinch. It silenced some, and made others bicker. "I took my medicine like a good Chantry soldier! Just like you do! Just like _all of them_! I'll have you know, it what's left of my trampled heart that is weeping and scarred!"

His body had been crushed, beaten around. Then maybe he had tried to fix it and accidentally broke it more. Like a bookshelf about to tip over, he picked the wrong place to bear his weight.

It looked as though Cullen fought to push the words away. He moved his hands up, maybe to block his ears, erase all memory of the exclamation – but he turned around once the echo subsided.

"You are not _sick, _not in the conventional sense," Cullen said slowly, "Forgive me. I have a lot on my schedule. This beaten spirit of yours is legitimate as any illness. I recognize your sadness, brother. That is why I pray you find a way to mend it." He rubbed his temples. "If you need my help, I am in the Chantry some days. I implore you; do not hesitate to ask for me."

Samson knew so already. He doubted he would ask for Cullen's help. Cullen wouldn't understand his troubles, he already didn't. Samson wasn't dumb enough to explain that he'd given away all his possessions for medicine and had his mouth cut open by the person he was living with. He wouldn't tell Cullen that he'd committed borderline nefarious acts to get money- _that_ would be stupid. There'd be no approval at all, definitely not from the _Knight-Captain _Cullen. Meredith would hear about it and his life would turn to worse than it already was. Meredith would loom over his shoulder and say, '_Samson is wise enough to tarry without assistance. Knight-Captain, you are forbidden to help him.'_

Samson had Faith. She was far more useful and better at understanding. Samson didn't need Cullen, didn't require another condescending influence in his life like Meeran.

"Samson…" Warren began softly, reaching Samson again now Cullen was out of earshot.

"What?" he groaned, not wanting any more lectures.

"If that man is your friend," Warren said, "if he was _my_ friend, I'd apologize and make up quick."

"I don't have anything to apologize for," Samson said, crossing his arms, "_I _am trying to get by. _He_ was the one judging me!"

"Unless he is usually a cruel lad, sorry to say, but I don't think so. He was trying to help." Warren pointed out, "Samson, it's not nice to yell."

"I was trying to make sure he didn't ignore me," he justified, still feeling heated.

"Anger isn't a weapon for clever men," Warren said, "It only has a use under life threatening circumstances."

"What do you want me to say?" Samson demanded, thinking there was no piece of advice more ridiculous, "'_Sorry, brother. I'm too cross to be nice'_? He'll think of me worse, an imprudent thorn in his pale arse."

A hint of a smile showed itself from beneath Warren's beard. He peered over to where Cullen had gone. "Wait a tick."

Before Samson protested, he watched the Fereldan man jog through the crowd and approach Cullen, clapping him on the shoulder. The Templar, appearing bewildered, peered slightly down.

"I'm terribly sorry. If you have any questions you'll have to make it quick, or walk with me," he heard Cullen's voice as a muffle through the crowd, "I'm afraid I'm especially busy."

Samson turned away from Cullen, not wanting to look at him, but despite this, he still heard the start of a reply, though it became ever quieter. Warren's voice was inaudible.

"Samson?" Cullen repeated, bewildered.

What was happening to his friends… his life? Samson was skeptical that an apology could resolve something as deep running as disrespect.

He took a deep breath. The lack of coin and work was so frustrating. He picked up the bucket so its contents wouldn't be snitched.

He needed a distraction, to get away from Cullen… so approached an elderly woman with a pet cat and tapped her on the shoulder. He didn't think about how to phrase his request this time. There was just feelings, and injustice, and it came tumbling out of his mouth with very little caring of what it was.

"Excuse me. My friends are against me and I am in a snit about it. Do you have any coin?"

It sounded funny, even to himself, but that was not the reaction of the person he spoke to. The elderly woman's gaze moved from the top of his head, to the swelling probably still on his face, to the bandages on his neck.

"My, you do look like you've had a terrible throw of the Maker's dice." The stranger sighed and poked through her pockets. "Go buy yourself a nice meal and share it with someone, dear."

Amazed, Samson watched as a gold coin was held out to him. Wiping the sweat off his hands via trousers, he took it.

"That's more than I deserve ma'am," he said, bewildered.

"It's just a little coin," she said, dismissively, "You need it more than I do."

For some reason this kindness brought more than joy, but a terrible grief. When the fleeting burst of happiness washed over him, Samson felt close to tears. Faith was right. The Maker didn't speak loud enough. If He did, it would be obvious and Samson and wouldn't have gotten into this mess.

He paced back to where the bucket had been placed before and put it on the ground. Nowadays he just threw around the Maker's name for old time's sake. It didn't seem to make a difference if he prayed or didn't. Awful matters still happened. Phillipa and Zoe believed even that was for a reason. If that was the case, the reason was doing a bloody good job hiding!

Warren walked back to Samson moments later, that kindly grin on his dirt covered face.

"I told you."

"Huh?" Samson tried to peer over all the heads to see Cullen, but he was wasn't around anymore. Gone, like all the others.

"Knight-Captain Cullen said he was grateful you sent an apology."

"I bet he didn't look thankful."

"He looked genuine enough to me." Warren's happiness refused to lessen. "Invited me to talk to him in the Chantry tomorrow, if I wanted. He will see if he can help me. Nice bloke."

"Yes, it's always _Cullen_ who is so wonderful," Samson said, tired now. He was exhausted of being angry, "Knight-Captain this, Rutherford that…" He peered down at Warren and sighed. "Sorry, mate. I… you're going to take up his offer?"

"How about we get some grub?" Warren asked, "Something from the markets. I'll give left overs to my family. I'd like to know more about your adventures."

_No, you don't_, Samson thought, but he couldn't keep being like this all evening. "I won't be able to stay long. I have… somewhere to be later."

"No need to make that face," Warren said with a small laugh, "My son does the same thing. Funny, eh? Come on."

* * *

They had enough coin for chicken. By the Golden City, the Guard _always_ had chicken… but he wasn't a guard anymore. Damn it all. Samson knew he couldn't go back. Ewald was probably still distrusting of him, he didn't want to be teased and mocked like Faith had by her Templars, and they'd already been cruel enough. He couldn't work in the Guard if he mingled with the Carta to get lyrium, if he was with the Red Iron.

Maybe it was impossible for former Templars to be Guards.

Warren and Samson ate away at the food in a more abandoned part of Lowtown, surrounded by other refugees dividing bread among themselves.

Some children asked for food. Samson didn't want to give it to them, so he didn't, but Warren did. He watched in amazement. How was this bloke so nice?

"You and Cullen used to be roommates together," Warren begun once the kids had run away, "What was that like?"

"It is a long story."

But he told Warren anyway, about Bailey, the combat training in the mountains, the mental fortitude training, his first Harrowing, his first Harrowing gone wrong, meeting Zoe through Phillipa, Phillipa and Maddox… he had to stop before getting to Meredith.

"Got indigestion?" Warren probed.

"I wish," Samson said bitterly, "Although I'd give myself it if I ate anymore."

"Guess I'll leave this to the kids then," Warren said with a sigh, putting the mostly pulled apart chicken in the now clean bucket, "You have to leave soon?"

"Probably."

"I'm going to bring these left overs back to the Chantry. Will you come?"

It was only because the Fereldan was being so nice that Samson ignored the scream of protest in his brain and followed anyway.

With every step he felt increasingly sick, like getting kicked in the stomach repeatedly. He shouldn't go. The Chantry was corrupt. It threw out Templars when they got too sick. It was overthrown with refugees. Meredith was in there. Cullen might be there. His mother was most _definitely_ there.

As the staircase with too many steps loomed out in front of him, Samson found he couldn't step onto the bottom one. The golden statues were staring at him, just like they were looming over a number of refugees sitting on the steps. The big red flags were almost patriotic.

"Your legs are too tired for the stairs?" Warren asked.

Samson tried to say, '_The Chantry is my problem'_, but he just nodded, feeling like he was three years old again, being carried up here by his mother. He used to like the flags, always wanted to wave one with just as many colors. The majestic statues were always creepy, and that had not changed. He never did get a flag, not even a little one, but Samson had tried to mimic it with a handkerchief once.

The memory felt detached from him, as though it had not happened, not to him. It was just a distant dream. He remembered the feeling strongly now, maybe because he was by himself.

He recalled how his mother sounded as she said 'Mummy's going to talk to the lay sisters. Be good, look, there are some others little boys and girls.'

She left him to play. She always left him to his own devices. There were three children. Their gazes were both curious and shy. One with pig tails, another had scratch marks on his face. The third pretended to have a sword and said, 'To Andraste's fire, possessed soul!'

The picture was clearer now. He remembered standing there, wishing there were instructions on what to do. He wasn't sure how to interact with these children. Why were they paying attention to him?

Madalyn, Kenneth and Tyler had been his only friends once. They had drifted apart over time, though no animosity existed. It was the same with Bailey. He didn't want them to know what had happened to him. Maybe they would find him in the streets soon.

Fine. Let them come.

This confusion was very strong. The more pleasant memories felt out of reach. He didn't recollect on the mixed experience of departing home, meeting his brothers and sisters in the Chantry, receiving his philtre, sniggering with Bailey as his voice broke while singing a hymn as a Templar in training. The discomfort remained.

"I'll get my wife and kids down to say hi," Warren advised him, "Wait there."

"No – don't bother yourself," Samson started, but the Fereldan was already gone.

"By Andrate's flaming sword."

The former Templar sat down on the bottom step, facing away from the sinistrous building

* * *

He met Warren's family. They were a cute bunch, at least, as cute as families could be, and Samson didn't know many. They spoke briefly, and he felt very little, until Warren's wife gave him a quick hug. For someone who was supposed to be grumpy she was very pleasant. Was it all some façade put on for outsiders?

Warren treating him as one of his family… felt like being stabbed in the back.

He shouldn't be here. He didn't belong.

It was time to say his farewells and get back to Faith.

"Sorry," he grumbled, "I gotta go. See you round here maybe."

It was a lie. The man who once cherished the Chantry now hated it, and he headed home, ignoring questions and disregarding their answers.

Samson never did get as simple a joy as a flag. Still, he had imitated one with a rag once when he was five, one that his father used to stem the blood from a grazed knee.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thanks to Flaminea for proof reading. I hope you guys are still enjoying the story. Please R&amp;R. I'm interested to know your thoughts.


	24. Vexamen II - Disturbance

The hard dirt tunnel pressed against his knee caps and the algid darkness oppressed his skin. A courtesan poised in front of him. She was shadowed by the lantern, yet her expression harrowed with condemnation, hatred for all that was true and wrong with the world. It pierced his heart like the blade that drew his blood. His throat scorched with his tongue from the scream.

An obtusely symmetrical room filled his mind, with shattered china across the floor. In the center was a woman without a face, an identity destroyed from bruises and swelling.

_We can still sell this one. _

Samson's sweaty fingers slipped as he twirled around the vial of lyrium in his satchel, full and warm beneath his skin.

_How could you?! _

_Stop it. Keep steady, _he told himself,_ it is only the past that is pretending to be the present. It is only pictures. Only sounds._ _Piss, but they know how to pretend. They know how to put on a rotten show. _

He felt so weak, crumbling.

_STOP!_

_I broke her nose, _Samson thought, as the crack resonated through his head.

_We go where the money is, darling. You see, we are not that different._

She stroked his boots and sobbed as her skin stretched and darkened to puce, a rabbit that had been trampled by hooves. A sad rabbit liked collecting weeds and grass to digest, and redigest, to keep it a happy, though annoying rabbit. _Grovel to someone who cares!_

Her house was solicitous, oblique.

_How could you? _

She had brown eyes.

Those brown irises swallowed by crimson blood, a poison to erase the window to her soul, disappearing behind eyelids that no longer had creases. The brown slowly turned to maroon, then charcoal, a gigantic hole, the brown a slit. The whites were red, blue, a tangle of vessels holding on for life.

_The whiny bitch might be blind, and I did it for money. _

Timidly, he wiped the sweat on the inside of his pocket. Cold glass touched his hand.

_Faith gave this to me. She's being nice to me. _

His eyes lifted to hers by command of her blade. Her expression was void of sympathy, a pure, undetermined emptiness. Was that how he looked when he poured blood down the drain, merely cleansing what wasn't supposed to be there?

_No, shove it. _

This wouldn't happen again.

_Clat. Clat. Clat. _

He listened to his footsteps across Darktown instead, to Faith's in front of him, those expensive shoes, focused on the dirt of the ground. Not Lowtown. Darktown. He was in Darktown right now. Darktown.

'_I've always found that when life steals your weapons, lyrium always has a spare,' _Faith had said, not a few minutes earlier, when she gave him the vial, '_You may need to use this yourself, but don't drink it right away, it is better for attacking at a distance.' _

Even then, when her smile had faltered, when her voice became distant, a separate experience wrenched him from the current reality. He missed her next words entirely, and had to ask for her to repeat them.

'_Meeran's despises having his reputation torn away._ _He will be civil in a public place. All you have to do is stay out of his sight but have sight of the tavern to identify any suspicious activity.' _

A prisoner of a mind was powerless, helpless, but a cry for help would achieve no justice. The beaten rabbit, what he had done was disgusting. The mage girl, the contents of her abode were vomit inducing – the stink, he could still remember the stink of rot, human excrement and selfishness. Nothing could be gained by infecting others with these sicknesses of humanity, details that abolished innocence and hope. It made him feel –and want to be- ill, to expel every fluid and mixture within his body.

'_Anything can wreck you_,' he remembered Faith saying, '_but how close to the edge are you willing to tread?' _

_Nothing more than this_, Samson thought, _I'll be a corpse if I do._

Asking strangers on the streets for coin, as embarrassing, stressful and demoralizing as it was, was far more assuring to his sense of self than taking a life away or harming others. The emotional turmoil was similar, though the outcome was different. He gained, and whatever the other person lost, they donated willingly. If he was going to be a low-life, at least he could be a useless, _kind_ member of society.

A hand touched his arm. "Samson?"

"What?!"

Panicked and explosive, he raised his eyes for the first time since he had left the house. He didn't see what lay in front of him for a few seconds.

They were in front of a tavern. Samson didn't remember walking there, or even if Faith and him held a conversation of any kind, but he recalled the pounding in his head and the clenching of his stomach.

A hex plagued him whenever he looked at Faith, and he'd decided it was easier not to look at her at all. He watched her arm as she gestured to the entrance of the tavern. Her sleeve was white and gold, part of a conservative gown with chainmail laced underneath it. Like most places in Darktown, this dwelling looked like it had seen better days. The exterior was constructed of onyx brick and wooden planks, half of which were brand new, while the others were polished but splintered. It was small, half the size of the Hanged Man, perhaps in the slow process of refurbishment. The sign of 'The Broken Spine' was nailed left to the door, written in cursive ink on what looked like a smudged Dragonbone plaque, bloody expensive stuff. Not much noise came from inside except for the faint plunks of a percussion instrument.

"I have fond memories of this place, so I hope you find it to your liking," Faith explained, "if you have not been before, that is."

"Nah. My brother and sister Templars used to go to The Silver Fountain in Lowtown a lot, when the Hanged Man was too busy." Samson hesitated, fixated on the tavern. "My friend Zoe's family owns this place."

"Does she?" Faith repeated in a tone very difficult to interpret.

"Yeah, didn't even know it existed before then," he admitted.

"Templars wouldn't. Despite its location, it is more expensive than those other taverns. It is also targeted toward families. My grandfather used to bring me here sometimes. Guylian's dead body, I'm ancient." She rummaged in her purse. "Gentlemen first. Treat your stomach and enjoy yourself."

She pried open and dropped a number of bronze coins in his satchel. Samson listened to the chinking of money feeling dejected, wishing he could see _all_ of her. "You're not ancient," he said, "You're beautiful."

"How would you know that," Faith asked, "when you haven't looked at me all evening?"

"I know your appearance incredibly well."

_Too well,_ he added begrudgingly to himself.

Faith didn't seem to know how to reply. "You wouldn't be here if I honestly believed I would be safer without your assistance."

"Don't drink too much," he said, in what he hoped was a caring way.

Samson kept his eyes on the sign as he entered.

* * *

The Broken Spine was brightly lit, clean, and scented of spiced wine. By far, it was the most pleasant tavern he'd ever been to. Circular tables were a couple of people space apart and designed to seat three or four. A space was deliberately kept free along one wall for music performers. A man was hitting a drum and playing a flute from a ram horn, while the woman was singing.

"_Don't go drawin' back the blinds nor lookin' in the street. Them that asks no questions, isn't told a lie_."

The man briefly abandoned his flute. "Fays, take over!"

Two girls were stomping their feet obnoxiously on the ground to the beat of the drum in front. They chuckled and shouted out the next line out of time, "_Now watch the wall my darling while the gentlemen go by_!"

This wasn't any tavern, but Zoe's. Samson watched the two girls making a racket, dazed. The only positive of his requesting coin was that he'd nicked one to send his letter to Zoe before he'd arrived home. She probably wanted to meet him to say she hated him.

'_I don't get how you could attack others for money! At least in the Circle we only do so to protect others,_' he imagined her saying.

If she said that, he didn't know what he would do. Money was an excuse, a tenuous excuse. Even if he had been paid to kill Meredith, he knew it wouldn't bring him satisfaction, not when the images and smell of her being ripped apart would haunt him.

Faith was right. No Templar would step foot in here. A different sort of immaturity was afoot– the playful lark of children, not the spilling of drinks or rowdiness. Those who were drunk had a slightly better grasp on their dignity. Parents must go here when they needed a time out. Now he was here to spy on a date. Why in the Blooming Rose did _Meeran_ want to go here?

Uneasy, Samson approached the bar to order food.

"Welcome, welcome! Can I get you a beer?"

The young bloke was half a decade older than him, and had the build for smithing, with a small beard, thick forearms and green eyes, _Zoe's_ eyes. Absently, Samson wondered if Zoe had mentioned him to her brothers.

Not looking at the menu he passed over the coin. "This enough for supper?"

"Close."

The bartender returned some bronze and passed him a wooden plaque with dragon wings engraved on it. The former Templar slumped over to the smallest charcoal black table in the corner, enjoying the refrain of the song even as the little girls' lyrics didn't always match.

He observed three new mothers playing cards at a table nearby, feeling out of place. While he wasn't the only single person in the premise, he was most definitely in the minority.

_What would it be like to work in this joint? _Samson's eyes scanned the crowd and accidentally caught the eye of a teenager with a stack of glasses in her hands.

With a finger he traced the engraved marking on the plaque. If Zoe had been offering him work, he should at least determine how much money he required to live comfortably before seriously considering it. That number was still unknown.

The music stopped and polite applause took its place.

His meal was placed in front of him by a waiter the same time Meeran's voice was vaguely heard over the bustle of patrons.

"Raleigh didn't take much convincing?"

"Very little is needed to convince me when drinking is involved," Faith said, a hint of cunningness to her tone.

What rubbish. Faith's drink of choice was lyrium.

Another song started.

Samson lifted his head to catch a glimpse of their table. Faith had obviously seen him because she was positioned so their eyes could meet, while Meeran's back was blocked from others at surrounding tables. Good- the less of that git he saw, the better.

A muscly man strolled to the middle of the tavern where the two girls were stamping their feet to the music. "Becca and Mary, come get your food."

Their father, apparently…

"I don't WANT food!" one yelled, her shoes suddenly losing tempo to the music.

"We're not hungry!" the other added.

_Andraste's sword, shut up_, Samson thought. He tried to listen to Faith and Meeran's conversation, but it was impossible.

"That's not what you said ten minutes ago!" the father crossed his arms. "The quicker you eat, the quicker you can come back and dance."

The look on the man's face suggested if it was his choice he'd force feed them.

_It only takes ten minutes to get service? _

"NO!"

"The food here is disgusting!"

Samson observed the other patrons to see if any of them looked suspicious.

"Do you want me to get your mum?"

"No!"

"I'm so sorry they've been disrupting your music."

The woman on the drum answered, "Not a problem, hun. Pleasure to have them! How about you ask a manager if they can eat where they are?"

"On the floor? That's hardly good discipline." The parent glared at his daughters, making a quick assessment of his options. "I will go ask."

The father walked to the bar.

The musicians started to play a softer tune and Samson still couldn't hear what Faith and Meeran were talking about.

'_On Sunday morning everyone would leave the house__  
__Dressed for the Sunday service__  
__And through the streets I used to know__  
__They go to meet their friends and so they take the family seat__  
__For the praise so earnestly for getting all around him__  
__When Eleanor sings in the choir it's like a larking summer__'_

He sipped at his drink. Even with customers passing by here and there, it was easier to see than hear. Maybe it wasn't important what they were saying.

_What is this pie anyway?_

Samson picked up his knife and stabbed its lightly golden crust through the middle, pretending it was Meeran's stomach. Flakes of pastry split and stuck up at odd angles.

_Rot, you bastard. That's it. Bleed out nice and slowly. _

The pie didn't gush out juices, but it smelled good, the scent of buttered pastry and… more fish. He sighed wearily. Why did Kirkwall have to overlook an ocean?

Cutting a piece by assaulting each inch like dislodging a slab of cement, Samson kept his eyes on the crowd, tilting his head to see around patrons.

There was nothing suspicious. Faith and her scummy date were still inaudible.

He picked up a fork now. It wasn't fair to mangle this pie. As he chewed up a piece that wasn't falling apart, he remembered the lyrium flask in his pocket and pulled it out.

Samson wanted to protect her, even if it was tempting to ruin the entire date and pretend he'd come here by accident. Swallowing a mouthful of pie, he opened the vial and drank half. He ate another mouthful. It wasn't as horrid as the girls were making it out to be. Homely, he thought.

Questions swelled in his mind about Zoe and her childhood, her brothers, all ones he hoped to ask one day. This must be a pleasant dwelling to be raised in, full of noise and people- company- unlike his parent's Lowtown house. He remembered from a breakfast conversation with Cullen that she went to the Chantry with her brothers, as her parents were too busy. How did she join the Templars then?

He scooped more pie onto his fork. For a solo meal, it could be a lot worse. Maybe if Meredith had let him stay in the Gallows, Zoe and his conversation in the Courtyard would have been different. The butterfly would still get flustered over the fact she'd shared her body with him, though Samson would respond differently.

'_I guess give it another year and you'll know how it feels to be me, sweetie.'_ He'd try to smile in a charming way, and then wonder if it was actually charismatic or plain creepy.

Zoe would blush. _'At least my words would make sense when strung together.'_

Samson imagined himself linking his fingers with hers. _'I can't be giving you enough of my attention then.'_

No need to resist the urge. No alternating motives or confusion. He'd kiss her and she'd try to tell him to go back to his charges.

'_They can wait,'_ he replied, '_but why did you lean in to kiss me like that, before I did?'_

_Stop thinking that crap_, Samson abruptly stopped the fantasy,_ it won't happen. It never can because you're friends and you'll never get her mixed up in this mess of your life._

The former Templar's eyes narrowed. _What's he looking at? _

Upon observing his surroundings again, he realized he wasn't the only one who was watching Meeran and Faith's table. A stony faced man, with messy blond hair and a beard, was seated at a table on another corner.

Not wanting to be unprepared if something did happen, Samson sculled the rest of his lyrium, rehearsing possible Templar abilities in his head and glancing at the onlooker infrequently. Whoever it was, they hadn't appeared to have seen him. Faith was pretty enough to catch attention. Was it one of her clients, someone from the Red Iron, or neither?

As the girls sat on the ground to eat pie, Samson heard more of the conversation.

"Samson was so jealous he couldn't stand the thought of us having drinks together," Faith was saying suavely, "Can you believe the rudeness of him?"

Meeran laughed. "It doesn't surprise me. His temper matches the Viscount's."

_Your temper matches an Archdemon! _

Samson took another bite of food to stop killing the Red Iron leader on the spot.

Faith laughed. It was a genuine laugh. Bewildered, forgetting about the intrusive thoughts and memories, he peered at her. The amusement in her eyes didn't remind him of before. Her smile didn't trigger the memories. Her makeup was lighter than usual, the damage on her face closer resembled elf markings.

The bearded man sitting in the crowd had not moved.

"Would you like to go for a stroll after this?" the mercenary asked, and then the music drowned the rest out.

_Am I meant to follow them next? _

Samson tried to get the last of the drops out of the lyrium vial as he saw Meeran's palm crawl up Faith's leg. What was foul was that she not only let him, but her legs fell apart ever so slowly.

"Urg."

His boss was so _old_, slimy and evil.

_Faith – WHY? _

Demanding answers Samson pretended to gag into his hand when Faith looked in his direction, and she either didn't see or was a very good actress.

Then it stopped. The prostitute said something too quiet to be heard, but Samson recognized that smile, the distant, cold expression. He snapped to watch the onlooker as it came flooding back again – the spitting out blood, stinging of his raw wounds, trying to walk while wanting to collapse.

Focusing everything on the room, the feature that startled him was the glint in the onlooker's eyes and the flickers of blue surrounding his hands. That wasn't a spy, or a mere onlooker, but a…

_Mage!_ Samson thought the words quick, but he reacted even quicker. Dropping his knife with a clatter, he shoved his hand toward the stranger. It was perfectly in line. Interrupt the spell or the spell caster?

A burst of silver and white light struck down from the ceiling to where the bearded man was. With a reverberating _shring _like Andraste's sword being thrust into the air the stranger was knocked to the floor in an instant.

The noise hurt his ears. It didn't used to.

Whatever the Smite was -it seemed a tad faulty- it wouldn't last long.

The attack had one problem, yet a grave flaw indeed. It was not a discrete move. Being out of practice, the light stunned those at a nearby table, and the sound brought many palms to ears. From the force, some were almost thrown from their chairs, spilling their drinks and knocking their plates.

Samson felt a twinkle of pride that it had worked, but it was short lived by the upheaval.

"Maker, what was that?"

"That man! On the ground!"

"What's with the racket?" Meeran turned around, though Faith met Samson's eye for an instant. She was completely calm.

"We must have a Templar with us," she remarked, tugging Meeran's arm, "Be grateful some psychotic mage isn't going to spill our entrails. Drink."

The Red Iron leader did not turn back to Faith. His eyes darted to the mage. Patrons who hadn't been stunned were checking on the ones who had, and others were getting to their knees to check the mage was okay.

This was just like catching an apostate.

As if he was in his Templar armor, Samson stood to his feet and stormed though the crowd like he owned the place, disregarding the outrage that had erupted in the tavern. This was simply a mage who was playing with what he shouldn't.

He knew exactly what to say.

"He's fine!" Samson called out, "Only a mischievous mage with a knocked head. Stand back."

The brunet used a lower key stunning spell which froze the stranger once more, curled up in a heap on the ground, and crouched down with him. If he had more energy, he would have done more, but Samson was drained of that. "I'll take him to the Gallows. Leave your fussing for picking dessert and stand aside."

Honestly, he couldn't acknowledge any truthfulness to the words. Samson had no idea what to do with the mage, but he'd behave how he'd been trained – calmly and efficiently.

From the floor, Meeran looked distrusting and suspicious, his shadow darkening the mage beyond recognition.

"I have a guess," he said, arms crossed, "I'm supposed to believe it's a tacky and utter coincidence you're here, Raleigh?"

It was only microseconds until Samson responded. However, it felt like longer. In those increments of time, the two men tried to beat each other down with their presence. From behind them, the musicians talked to what sounded like a staff member.

There was no question. Meeran had already determined Samson had plotted to interrupt the date, but was left in the dark as to why. Samson wanted to conceal the truth, though his boss also didn't appreciate lies. Even shaking from the exhaustion of using magic, he chose to tell the truth.

"Of course it isn't," Samson said with a wry smile.

Footsteps approached.

"Alright. Everybody march back!" shouted a voice. "Three more steps – big, dancer steps – little one, _are you a behaved princess or not? _THANK you!"

The staff member had found them. Before Meeran could spit back an insult, or maybe ten, Samson watched as the bloke who had taken his order, the one with Zoe's eyes, lowered on the ground with him.

His black work clothes were smudged with lard stains and stunk of alcohol, though they were otherwise free of creases.

"Good evening," he said briskly, "I am Jed, one of the managers. Could you tell me what the heck you're doing?"

"I was charming my gut with your lovely food when I saw this mage try to attack someone at that table." Samson pointed calmly to Faith, going along with the story he'd come up with. "I used to be a Templar, still take lyrium and... I'll bring him back to the Gallows in a moment; I only want to figure out what he was doing here. I'll be out from under your feet before you know it."

"Can I get your name, supposed former Templar?" the manager requested.

"He's Raleigh Samson," Meeran answered the question for him, "and an inconvenient accessory to this one." He clapped Faith on the shoulder.

If Samson wasn't so fatigued from hindering the mage, he'd bother to look at Jed, but all he could do was try to make sure the magicker was contained. "I… I don't have the energy to keep him down. Do you have somewhere quiet I can heart-to-heart with him, away from the children?"

"Hmm," Jed hummed, suspicious, "There's the staff room, but I'll have to watch."

"No fuss then," Samson said, "Can you help me carry him?"

It was annoying he was so exhausted today – maybe from the pain killers still. As the two men, a waitress and patron assisted with lifting the still paralyzed mage, Faith's voice was barely heard. "Don't you want to find out what Samson is up to?"

"No." Meeran's voice was calm. "We'll stay here and enjoy ourselves."

* * *

"Arabell, be a darl' and cover the front?"

"Sure, Jed."

"Get Tim, or whoever the heck is free, to fetch me some cold water and potion to make the swelling go down."

"Will do."

The woman left the staff room.

The men slowly lowered the mage – 'Bend at your _legs_, for Maker's bloody sake!' said Jed - and placed him against a wall. The man looked awful. He looked pale and had swelling on his head from where he'd fallen.

The patron who had helped lift him asked, "Should we find a healer?"

"He might be capable of healing himself when he wakes up," Jed said, "but thank you. It's under control from here. Go back to your table and I'll get you something nice as thank you."

Samson brought his hands to his head. He couldn't remember Templar powers being so draining, but then again, this wasn't even the same lyrium he was used to. His mind hadn't exactly been a sanctum of clarity lately.

The noise from the tavern was thankfully muffled, though the music had started up again.

"I don't know what to think about this," the manager said slowly, "but I'm majorly bummed they'll be no dessert after I give out free ones to the angry mob. I was looking forward to left overs."

Samson groaned in response. He didn't care about eating right now.

"I definitely know what you mean." Jed kept talking like Samson was giving thoughtful answers, "It doesn't matter if the Maker granted them eternal life and beauty, the angry mob always co – oh, he's waking up."

The former Templar forced his eyes open, though he felt slightly dizzy.

_The mage… mages are trouble… supposed to be guarded… not to be trusted…. risk of possession. _

"What were you up to, mage?" Samson spat. He instinctively reached behind him for weapons but there was nothing there.

With half open lids, the mage glared and moved his hands to use a spell, but nothing happened.

Jed, the only one who was fully functional, sounded defensive. "Steady, we only want to talk to you, buddy."

"He's not our _friend_," Samson snarled, "You know the proverb? _A mage is fire made flesh and a demon asleep_."

Exhaustion was making him regress to his Templar attitudes.

"I kill all Templars," the mage said groggily, "You better not be one of –"

"I humbly apologize for the narrowly escaped chaos. Do you want some dessert, sir?" Jed interrupted.

_What the shit?_ Samson thought bewildered. So much for keeping on topic and interrogating the mage, _Zoe, this was supposed to be one of your good brothers!_

"Mate, this isn't the ti…" Samson began, but the manager had reverted to some customer-service mode.

"_People who live in nugskin houses should not throw fire," _Jed counted Samson's proverb with another one, "What's your name?"

The mage hesitated. "Decimus."

The scoundrel could see the room in more colour, but still felt tired. "Are you going to explain what spell you were about to use?"

Decimus shrugged. "That is dependent on your intentions."

Samson wanted to punch the mage, but turned to Jed instead. He had a sudden idea. "Wanna get those treats? I'll keep 'im chatting."

In reality, he wanted a chance to get Decimus on his side, and for that he'd have to break a few rules.

Jed seemed relieved to have a task in his comfort zone. "Yes, I _do_!"

Once he departed, Samson turned to Decimus and held a hand up threateningly, even if he had no more power to actually do anything. He remembered that Red Iron members were indebted to each other. On the chance this mage was working for Meeran, this could turn out in his favour.

"Decimus," he forced the name out, "I want answers, not to condemn you. I don't want to take you to the Gallows unless it's necessary. Now quick, before Jed comes back. Did Meeran hire you?"

The man nodded.

"As a fellow brother of the Red Iron, I ask: What for?"

Decimus's expression became less harsh. "If Meeran's outing didn't go well," the mage said slowly, "I was to put her asleep. Then when Meeran and I brought her away, to perform a spell to make that lady obey his will."

_What the blighted hell?! _

"For how much?" Samson questioned, trying to push out of his mind how sinister the plot was. Making somebody their slave? That… was inhumane, though it was crummy enough for the Red Iron Leader. Perhaps Meeran had gotten ideas when Samson had said Faith wasn't a doll. It didn't matter how it happened, the idea made him feel sick.

It also would count as blood magic.

"50 sovereigns," Decimus answered.

"What manner of spell is that?" Samson wondered, "I didn't think there were ones for that purpose when I _was_ in the Circle. Binding rituals are unproven fallacies."

At the notion of 'was', Decimus appeared intrigued. "I was instructed to tamper with her memories until what was left made her listen to Meeran out of loyalty."

"Out of a lie, you mean?" Samson inquired, feeling sick again.

Decimus nodded slowly and rolled his eyes at the same time.

Footsteps approached the staff room again. Quick. "Thanks, Decimus," he muttered as the door opened again.

Jed was impossibly carrying three glasses of water in one hand, and two bowls of a whitish dessert in the other. Samson still couldn't believe that the manager was treating them like tantrum two year olds. He placed everything on the ground without spilling a drop.

The young woman from earlier followed inside with a cloth, one wet, one to be used for bandages, Samson suspected, and a potion.

"What is that abhorrent matter?" Decimus asked, referencing to the bowl.

Jed pushed one toward them.

"Apple and rice pudding," he said, "embrium scented rice, at that. All Starkhaven imported. Decimus, eat some of yours and the potion. It should help with your head until we get a proper healer over from the area."

Samson wondered if the tavern had Starkhaven roots, if _Zoe_ did. He took a spoonful of pudding to try replenish his energy. It was delicious. "Can I go talk to Faith?"

"Not just yet." Jed took out a small notepad and metal pen from his chest pocket, "I've some paperwork of my own to fill out."

Samson sipped at water to stop himself from retaliating. He shot a look at Decimus, but he was staring at a spoon of pudding like he thought it might be poisoned, moving his head to the guidance of Arabell who was dabbing it– there was only a little blood.

"I overheard you tell Meeran that you weren't here by coincidence," Jed said, to which Samson thought, _Shit_, "How do you fit into all this? I won't lie. I'm very suspicious of this whole _incident_. A mage, a former Templar and the Red Iron leader in one place…"

"Hmm…" Samson debated how much to say. This bloke was one of Zoe's brothers… so was this story going to get out and back to Zoe? In every scenario, it was best to be vague. "Faith is from the Rose, and she has many _loyal_ customers – if you get what I mean. Lots of people who like to have her around, who get upset to see her with other people."

"You mean stalkers," Jed said bluntly.

"Err," Samson gulped. That wasn't what he was trying to insinuate, more that Faith had lots of connections in the city, whether friendly or not. But he needed a story and this also seemed to make sense. "Yeah, that's right."

The manager took a deep breath and continued writing. "Before you return that mage to the Circle – let me check I have this right. Faith was on a date with Meeran. The mage and yourself…. are Faith's stalkers with a jealousy complex? And you both decided to make a big deal out of it in the middle of a public place? And this was your way of containing the situation."

"Down to the last detail," Decimus said.

Samson smiled at the mage. They were working together on this. Jed started to write some more on his notes.

"You didn't think of having a fair fist fight somewhere else – like outside in an alleyway somewhere?"

"We thought on it, but having a fight in a pretty tavern would sound more impressive," Samson invented.

"Maker," Jed sighed. Arabell giggled, wrapping Decimus's head with cloth now. Decimus grinned.

Samson, realizing that Jed was worried about not getting any food, pushed his dessert forward. "You wanted some?"

Jed jumped, like he'd flicked a spider in his direction instead. "I… I don't have time."

"Yes, you do," Samson said. "Eat up."

Reluctantly the manager shoveled down the food quickly, obviously still pressed for time, like he didn't even need to chew it.

Somewhere in that minute, Samson suspected Jed and himself had exchanged in a wordless conversation from facial expressions alone. The former Templar blamed it on an unforeseen perceptiveness to others emotions from stress.

_Please don't recognize me_, Samson thought.

Jed chewed his food more slowly. '_Do I know you from somewhere?_'

'_No.' _

'_There's something familiar about you. Does my sister know you?'_

'_I'm nobody.' _

'_I swear Zoe once mentioned a Samson…'_

'_No she didn't.'_

Samson took a gulp of the water while Jed scraped more pudding onto his spoon.

'_Wait – are you the idiot who didn't know how to flirt?'_

'_Whatever she told you, forget it.' _

'_Yeah, I think you were that one.' _

'_Did you know that I fucked your pretty sister like a rabid animal?'_

Jed placed the bowl down on the ground. '_What's that look for?'_

"Yeah, go talk to Faith," he said, putting his notepad away. "I'll go too, to get details from her."

Samson had to work very hard not to collapse, whether it was from exhaustion or relief was a different story.

The manager put the bowls and drinks on a desk. Samson grabbed Decimus by the arm and the three of them went back out to the tavern. It was far emptier, although Meeran and Faith were sitting on the same side of the table. Faith was balanced rather oddly on her side, with her legs draped over Meeran's thighs.

Faith looked from Samson, to Decimus and then back to Samson.

Meeran glared at Decimus, Jed and then to Faith, with a pleasant -yet very fake- smile.

Jed was only looking at Faith. "Good evening, Faith," he said pleasantly, "Sorry to interrupt. I don't really care about this; I just need to be able to cover my backside from the angry mob. You should know how it is. Samson appears to have it under control, but I need an accurate record of what happened." The manager took a breath. "So far, I have that _these two_ are your stalkers, Faith – and they got jealous of your outing with Meeran tonight. Do I need to, uh, get them incarcerated?"

The Red Iron leader chuckled. "Good work, Jed. That's as accurate as it will ever be."

Faith gave her most innocent look to Jed. "It's accurate."

The manager wrote down some notes. "You're on awfully good terms with this _stalker_ of yours." He pointed out, referring to Samson. "You aren't bothered by the fact he interrupted your evening?"

"Don't worry," Faith said with a winning smile, "He's my very favourite stalker."

"And you are a very strange person," Jed said, writing down the last of his notes, "Guess it comes with your job. Anyway, thank you for cooperating."

He left, as a customer wanted to complain.

"Can I talk to you, Faith?" Samson asked sweetly.

"It can't wait until later?" Meeran dismissed the comment.

Samson gritted his teeth. "Yeah, I'll go home, and I'll have company."

He meant the mage, but Decimus didn't react.

"Good," Meeran sneered.

Samson tried to insinuate to Faith with a facial expression that something was up with this entire scenario, but there was little indication of a reaction. That is, until they had turned and were about to walk out the door. Another burst of light shone from behind them. When the others turned around, Meeran's head was on the table.

"Faith!" he mouthed, _don't let Jed see._

"I'm deeply sorry, manager," Faith called abruptly, waving, "He drank too much. I'll take him to my house. If you want any extra details, come see me at the Rose sometime."

She winked.

"Pick him up," she instructed Decimus and Samson, gesturing towards Meeran, "We're going to have a talk."

Jed was busy trying to calm down an angry customer and didn't get a word in until they were out the door.

"I know all about you, girly!" Jed called over the crowd, "You're not my type."

* * *

As Samson expected, they weren't going to the Circle. They went to the back of The Broken Spine, to where it looked like the plumbing was, a rather closed off set of walls, which was a lot quieter. A staff member who was smoking spotted them and retreated back inside.

"Did you have a brilliant plan?" Samson wondered, thinking it was silly to have a sleeping grown man with them without any idea of what to do with him.

"An interrogation," Faith said simply, "What did I miss?"

Decimus gave Faith the run down on what he'd been asked to do.

"That shit eater!" Faith shouted.

"Shhh!" Decimis cut her off.

"What should we do with him?" Samson asked.

The woman hesitated. "I do hate Meeran. Is there…" she placed a hand on the blood mage's ankle, "…a way that you could tamper with his memories so that bastard will have to obey me?"

"Faith!" Samson hissed, "Speaking of shit eaters, do you want to be on his level?"

"Why can't I?" Faith tested, "He wasn't willing to leave me alone when I asked!"

"Yeah, but-"

"If you're all worked up because Decimus's a blood mage, their wickedness is another of the Chantry's lies," Faith explained evenly.

She jokingly fluttered her eyelashes, which made Samson sigh, peering at their prisoner. Mages weren't bad in of themselves, but some were. The Templars' job was to discover who was and wasn't, and maybe… blood magic wasn't part of that decision.

"I wouldn't use it to be malicious," Faith added, referring to the spell, "I only want to make sure he stays away from me."

More or less, Faith was saying if she was given the power to control somebody, she would do it for the purpose of self-defence, all fine in theory, but would having such a power change her mind?

"Alright." Samson said firmly, "So what about it – uh…?"

"Can I receive my pay?" Decimus interrupted.

"Samson," Faith said, pointing to Meeran's knocked out form. The man complied and poked around in pockets until 50 sovreigns worth of coin had been taken out.

"There you go," Samson said, placing it in the mage's hands.

"The ideal solution would be to erase all memories he has of you," Decimus said, "I am not an expert at that spell, so I can repress the memories. However the memories will be hidden from consciousness, and not eliminated. Any mention of Faith or circumstances that will remind Meeran of her will return the memories."

Samson felt disheartened. He would definitely remind Meeran of Faith, as he was given a job partially because of her. "Does that mean I can't get work from him anymore?"

Decimus looked thoughtful. "I doubt the occasional contract would reverse the spell."

Less work. Again. Shit.

However, he had decided to limit the jobs he took from Meeran anyway, so it wasn't much difference. He didn't like the idea of continuing to work for Meeran just on principle of how much he and Faith had been screwed around. It had gotten too personal. Samson needed coin, though. Maybe he'd have to improvise and just take what he could.

"I hate his guts, anyhow." Samson turned to Faith, and she was staring at him too. "Should I prepare my bag so you can kick me into the gutter, princess?"

That was all it came down to. If Samson couldn't work, he wouldn't be able to be housed with Faith, not if what she said at the beginning was still true. Now he wouldn't be able to give anything, or if that, very infrequently…

The woman appeared calculating. "If Decimus performs this spell, I will be the reason why you can't regularly receive mercenary work. That means the consequences are my responsibility." Her blue eyes were steely, though certain, "On the assumption you don't turn into an intolerable bastard, I will keep the space next to me in my bed free for you."

Samson wasn't sure how to respond. He was in some kind of shock. "You… um…"

_You're not completely heartless! _

"How touching." Decimus appeared to find the display distasteful. "There is another problem. This spell requires a great amount of life force energy."

"Big buckets?" Samson inquired.

"Side effects are common, but are temporary," Decimus said, "Dizziness, fainting, nausea and fatigue for up to a week or so. You won't be the only one without work for a while, Samson."

Samson felt sick. Faith's body was already compromised; maybe this would make it worse. "I don't like the sound of this, Faith." he said.

The woman crossed her arms. "There is risk with all magic, but… what will you do?"

The man shrugged. Maybe not working would be good for her. That wasn't his worry. "Don't rip your hair out over it. I will take care of you if you can't… if you think it is worth it."

There was a long silence, one where Faith stared at the floor for a little while.

"How's your head?" she asked Decimus.

"Painful," he admitted, "It is not wise for me to perform spells without further assistance. I know a number of healers, but they're too far away."

Faith stood to her feet. "I have a friend who can help."

* * *

The walk was arduous. To not attract attention, Samson and Decimus carried Meeran around the normal way with an arm each over their shoulders, as though he was a person with alcohol poisoning. The guards who spotted them asked if everything was okay, and Faith said they were simply finding medical attention since Meeran had been in a fight, and there wasn't much else that they could do anyway.

They knocked on the door of a house in Lowtown some twenty minutes later. A large busted woman who looked Faith's age answered the door. She didn't express dismay at what she was seeing. In fact, her pale complexion broke into a wide smile.

"What a delight. Am I finally meeting Samson?" she said, stepping back to let them inside.

Faith grumbled. "No."

"Err…" Samson awkwardly stepped in after Faith. "I'm a popular focus of conversation, am I?"

"Not in the least," the woman said, "but I reeled it out of her."

"If I ever find one," Samson said, "I'll commemorate a vestige in your name."

Decimus walked in too, looking at Samson incredulously at this information- probably wondering if they got up to acts of insanity every day. If it was asked, Samson knew the answer to this would be 'yes'.

The door shut behind them.

"Er, what _is_ your name?" Samson added.

Faith made a fussy noise like the little girl who didn't want dinner. "Elegant is a herbalist. She provided the anti-inflammatory potion for you last night."

"I most certainly did. For free."

"Maker's balls, you didn't have to do that," he blurted out.

"It was my pleasure, don't be a sad tosser about it," Elegant said briskly. She quickly gestured to a sofa. Samson and Decimus heaved Meeran over. "Now business is business, what did you do to the grumpy bastard?"

_This lady's got her head on properly_, Samson remarked, impressed. "Faith did it."

"She used a Templar spell on him," Decimus responded. He seemed content not introducing himself. The two stretched out their arms and recovered from putting Meeran down. He still looked asleep.

"Yes, although our friend here would like help with his head too," Faith explained, gesturing to Decimus.

"Ah, yes, how do you know Faith?" Elegant asked, stretching out a hand, which Decimus shook.

"We were introduced twenty minutes ago," the mage said, awkwardly.

"A twenty-minutes-ago friend," Elegant noted with a big smile, "I completely understand."

"Does she have many of those?" Samson inquired, bewildered.

"What do you think?" Elegant asked, winking at Samson three times.

"Shut up. It's not like that," Faith spat.

"Of course it isn't."

Elegant winked at Samson another three times. Then she went across the room to a set of drawers.

Samson chuckled. She had sense of humour, one of the best qualities a person could have. Within seconds of meeting each other, they seemed to share an unspoken, instant respect. He approached her. "How do _you_ know Faith?"

He winked back at her, twice, because he'd never really practiced winking more than once in a row. Elegant was rummaging through parchment and thin vials.

"Stop, you woman-hunter!" she hit Samson playfully on the arm. "My partner will see."

"I can wake him," Faith threatened loftily. "In all seriousness, it is best this is done quickly so we can return home. Both Meeran and Decimus have minor concussions and I'm tired."

"Right. I'll have a look at the two of them," Elegant said, picking out four different vials and another one of dried herbs. She pushed her copper hair out of her eyes and approached Decimus. "Say 'Ah'." The apostate was about to when Elegant amended, "no, please don't. That's plain ridiculous. Unwrap the bandages though."

Faith sat down on the edge of the sofa, her arms crossed and glaring in the distance. Samson hadn't seen her so angry since that night at her house during withdrawal.

"I have seen Faith through the Rose, but that's not where I first met her," Elegant said, carefully, examining the mage's head.

"She met me in the Red Iron," Faith replied bluntly, "She used to work for Meeran in that capacity."

"Now I make potions for him," Elegant finished, with an edgy glance at Samson and Decimus. "Are you both from the Red Iron?"

Samson and Decimus nodded.

"What would you like me to do with Meeran?" Elegant inquired.

Decimus and Faith helped explain the blood magic spell.

"Then could you keep Meeran here overnight?" Faith requested, impatient, "I don't want to see him ever again."

Elegant sighed. "Yes, why not?"

Samson recognized a careworn gleam in her eyes. There wasn't much talking while the herbalist managed their various injuries and imparted advice. It seemed like she was concentrating hard, anyway. Herbs were rubbed into Decimus's head, before it was re-dressed. He ingested a potion while this occurred. A similar protocol was done for Meeran, and apparently they would be both fine over time, but work over the next few weeks wasn't recommended.

Samson doubted Meeran would listen to that advice when he was conscious enough to hear it.

"Let's get this spell underway then…" Faith said.

She was instructed to sit down on the chance that she collapsed. Samson had never seen blood magic before, not beyond demon possession or while it was happening. It was enthralling to see the weaving of colour as the mercenary leader and Faith were linked together in their minds. Threads of black and red spurt over them like acid and webs before sinking into their skin. When it was over, Faith expression blanched and looked absent.

"Do you need a bucket?" Samson asked.

"Sleep," she said simply, crawling closer to him. Bewildered, like a cat, Faith laid down on the floor on her side, curled next to Samson's knees, breathing irregularly, but surely. Tentatively, Samson placed a hand on one of her shoulders.

"Dear oh dear," Elegant said, exhausted.

"Samson and Faith. Sickening." Decimus remarked, rubbing his hands together, "what do you do at home?"

"Not a lot," Samson admitted, which was true, "How have you kept the Templars away?"

"With help," Decimus said.

Samson didn't want to turn Decimus over to the Circle now that he'd been helped. He needed all the help he could get right now. "I'll be one of them. Can I meet your friends?"

"Why should I introduce you to them?" Decimus tested.

"I like mages," Samson said, "I'll need coin with Faith out of action, and I think we have a better chance of finding some in numbers. You want to work together? Keep it a secret and so will I."

Helping a mage again felt liberating in a strange way. This was a chance to make it up to Maddox, to show Meredith and the Kirwall Circle how much better mages were without the Circle. _This_ felt right.

Decimus muttered curiosity, "I'll have to check with them first, but I can write to you?"

"That's best. Send it to Faith at the Rose."

Despite his slightly swollen face, Samson still managed to smile as Decimus handed Elegant a handful of coin- part of Meeran's money. "This is thanks from Faith and Samson too."

"Th-Thank you very much, lovely," Elegant said, shocked.

"Thank you," Samson agreed.

"Be nice to your lady friend," Decimus said, as Samson opened the door.

"She's hardly a proper lady," Samson informed him, "but… your help is valued."

The door closed and Elegant peered to him, and Faith on the floor. "Would you like to sleep in the spare room? Home will be a fair distance with Faith like this."

Samson felt strange. He couldn't figure out why those words sounded familiar. "That's nice of you, really. Thank you for this, but I better get Faith home. I think she'll be happier there."

The herbalist's eyes widened slightly. "Samson, I am not fooling around. You don't have to be so self-sacrificing. Life on this side of Kirkwall is tough. I may not look it, but I know what that's like. Forgive me for assuming that you are struggling."

The former Templar wasn't sure what to say. "My income has been shaky lately."

"I am lucky enough that I climbed out of the poverty hole, but Faith's always been stuck down there. It's not easy to get out. It isn't as simple as everybody makes it out to be. They don't understand. It is a deep hole, like a well, so deep you can barely see the sunlight. It can be easy to get comfortable being at the bottom of it, because the slog out is too much work. You forget that the sun even exists. And eventually sunlight hurts, and pleasant life circumstance feels like the bottom of the well, like it's all been turned upside down."

Samson was surprised Elegant was so empathetic to his situation. At the same time, the words didn't quite register. "I am thinking of what she might want. It isn't about being self-sacrificing."

The woman moved closer to him and ran a few fingers over the bandages on his neck. "Is Faith… is she kind to you?"

He recoiled slightly. For some reason, her kindness made him uncomfortable. "Why would you ask that?"

"Look, I don't know what she is like with you," Elegant said, "but if she treats you unfairly, you have to tell her not to. It's important to remind her of what proper behaviour is."

"I don't get you."

"She forgets sometimes. That's all."

Elegant looked disheartened.

"Was she cruel to you?" Samson inquired.

"She was lovely in the Red Iron," Elegant said, "Quite brilliant, if I am honest. We worked together on some contracts. I found her resilience admirable. Faith never seemed upset or disturbed by the work there; she just said she knew it wasn't good for her. One evening I burst into tears because I couldn't cope with the contracts I chose from Meeran, but because of various reasons I kept going. When I considered leaving, Faith encouraged me to quit. She helped me find resources so I could transition onto something else."

"What's the problem then?"

"I realized when I stopped taking contracts that I didn't know her at all."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know why, but she never enjoyed my company anymore. Whenever I offered to come over to her house for tea, or have her at my house, she wouldn't let me. She got really angry after a while, so I stopped trying."

"I don't think she's proud of how she lives," Samson remarked, "and her house is kinda a wreck."

"But I don't care about that," Elegant said earnestly, "It does not concern me in the slightest."

"Look, I don't get it either," Samson pointed out, "but thank you for your help. I do tell her when she's being bitchy. I'm going to go now. Let me know if I can repay you somehow."

As Samson carried Faith home on his back, he found that he felt remarkably peaceful, almost like he was sitting outside in the Gallows Courtyard or pacing the Circle halls. Samson didn't know what would happen in what was to come, but he was confident he could figure it out. Work might have to wait until evening, depending on how ill Faith was.

* * *

"Psst…" he hissed in her ear, as he lowered her onto the bed, "No blacking out on me, got it?"

"Promise," she muttered, barely audible.

He wasn't sure whether to trust the opinion of a person who was barely awake, so Samson spooned behind her and slowly wrapped his arms around her to hold her hands. He didn't bother changing. He closed his eyes listening to her chest slowly expand and lower.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Thank you to Flaminea for her thoughtful feedback.

There is technically one chapter left of Samson's POV for Act 2. Two other characters will get some time in the POV spotlight before it transitions into Act 3. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'd changed details of it around about ten times, something ridiculous.

Music plugs - "A Smuggler's Song" is a poem by Rudyard Kipling. It's an impressive piece of writing, so worth a look at without music. It has been adapted into a number of different musical versions. One I thought sounded DA-ish was by Gopher Baroque, a folk group.

"The Sparrow" by Mary Hopkin came out in the early 70s. I think it might be a cover. I have heard the song is about moving out of home, struggling to find your place and feeling lonely. With the religious undertones, it seemed fitting for Samson.

You can listen to both songs and artists for free on Spotify. I highly recommend the artists, especially if you want to listen to something tavern-ish.


	25. Non Omnis Dolor Nocet

_Trigger warning:_ This chapter has content some readers may find upsetting. Emotional, verbal, physical, sexual abuse, drug abuse, self harm. What can I say? Faith' is a walking trigger bomb!

* * *

"Samson…" Faith mumbled.

Silence answered her. Opening her eyes was uncomfortable due to the crust gluing them shut, like tearing roots from the earth. The corners of her vision were dark, as if her house was the exit of the tunnels underneath Darktown, narrow and full of uncertainty. Lyrium was on the bedside table- for her, she suspected. Still, she believed herself to be alone, until she felt her body weight tilt and the bed sheets rustle. Someone put a hand on the shoulder that wasn't facing down. Someone was sitting next to her.

"Good afternoon, Faith." It was Samson, quiet, "Were your dreams kind to you?"

"Didn't dream," she mumbled. Her senses returned and she realized she was on her bed, "How did I get here?"

Samson chuckled, "I carried you, princess. You curled up on Elegant's floor after the blood magic to twist Meeran's memories."

The memory came back slowly. Yes, knowledge of Faith should be repressed in Meeran's mind now, but that type of freedom came with consequences. "What about work?"

"I went to Lusine and asked that you could get time off," Samson said, "I explained why. It's alright."

Faith had too many thoughts and not enough energy to express them. "Money?"

"I will go looking. A bit. Bloody little chance I will have any luck." Merely a greyish blur, Samson sounded annoyed, "Stupid. Know anywhere?"

Faith smirked. "My work."

"No," the man's tone had a fond ring, like she was misbehaving, "I get annoyed by people too easily. And I don't wanna force myself to fuck or be nice to those I don't care 'bout."

Faith reached out and touched Samson's torso, covered in a green shirt today. He brought a hand to her arm.

"What about other mercenary groups? I like smuggling and guarding folk."

"Athenril," Faith replied, "She's two faced, mistrustful… but not Meeran. Meeran hates her."

"If Meeran hates her I don't know if I want to work for 'er," Samson remarked, "How do I track her down, anyway?"

Faith closed her eyes with a heavy sigh. "I never met her and I'm glad for it."

"Meeran knows, I reckon," Samson said, "I'll still have to wait then."

Faith mumbled, too tired.

"If I can get smuggling work I don't want to waste my time looking for something I won't like or I'll leave," he looked very guilty as he said it, "Faith, I think I'll end up asking people for it."

Faith let her hand trace down his torso, trying to say it was okay.

"Can I borrow your money to get food?"

Faith nodded.

"What do you want?"

"Edible…food."

"Maker's balls," Samson swore, like this was a demand to save Thedas, "I'll try."

Faith tugged on his shirt. She heard him lie down and from how his torso tilted in another direction he was positioned in front of her. "Are you going to be alright if I go out?"

"Mmhmm."

"I was worried about you yesterday," Samson said, "Thought Meeran had snatched your mind."

Faith tried to make a noise that meant 'No'.

"I felt scummy. Did you?"

In protest, hoping he would change the subject, she held him closer.

"You're behaving different," he remarked. It was impossible to tell if he was confused.

_No,_ Faith thought, _I am not. _

Joining her under the covers, Samson picked the grit from her eyelashes, muttering to himself, a remote whisper. The gentle tug of her eyelids reminded her of his fingers wiping her tears. It felt comforting and familiar, like when he helped her remove her makeup the first night he stayed over. In an incoherent mess of thought when she could no longer feel his touch, she hoped he wouldn't leave, as she heard him open the door.

"You're abandoning me," she mumbled.

"Only temporarily, little baby," he said it nicely, with a hint of snark.

She disagreed, but he was out the door by then. "No."

Before she could consume the lyrium, her mind drifted. She'd have to tell Samson about Meeran after she'd rested, she knew it. How to explain?

* * *

The torches of The Broken Spine from the previous night returned to her, the noise and chatter of families, a mirage to toy with her sensibilities. The sounds of children were a whirlwind of festivity and joyful chaos, ever so colourful yet false.

Meeran sat opposite her, looking like usual- smug and terrible. "What's the appeal with Raleigh?" he mused, "He's a young one, arrogant, thinks he knows everything."

Faith finally managed to smile. "Haven't you heard? At work I do well with the younger ones."

"What a sick joke, Faith."

Faith chuckled. In a world with no sense for consequences, she would have said, "My tastes have matured with me. I like sinking my teeth into younger arrogant pigs than you." But instead she said something else.

Talking to Meeran about his other failed attempts to replace her, or her work, had not kept him distracted for long. The conversation kept returning to the very person she wanted to keep out of it. Before long, she felt light headed, inappropriately flirtatious and woozy. The tavern blurred, aggravated by her inability to sit still.

"Why?" Meeran pressed.

"He… is… rather similar to me."

"Are we talking about the same Raleigh? "

In a world without consequences she would have said, "Not likely."

And that's exactly how she responded.

* * *

9:25 Dragon

Faith arrived home and leaned against the door to lock it. The temptation to curl onto the floor immediately was overwhelming. Her wrists, forearms and thighs ached so severely it was difficult to move them. A bucket of ice would be sufficient to allay the pain. She may have only spent three hours on standard service and four on premium service, but building the muscular endurance was taxing regardless. The level of tease for standard service was so much like masochism she thought of it as just marketing for premium. One young man was asking if she was available for such a service the same day.

"I'm sorry, but no," Faith said, while thinking _of course I'm not going to be free, I'm already fully booked, you egocentric fool,_ "My hours are non-flexible at the moment."

"Damn it."

_They're so deprived of depravities penetration must feel like the only reasonable next choice_, she rationalized. Placing her shawl and satchel on the table, she heard a scrape of metal and looked down.

Keys.

Her heart stopped.

Ewan's keys.

_Shit. _

In a disbelieving stupor, she picked them up. No mistaking them. When Faith had bought a loan on this house, she had had a copy of the keys carved the moment she earned the coin. She could still remember the look of initial confusion on Ewan's face when she had handed them to him. He had understood quickly, and he showed contentment in his own way- by visiting her. All happiness that had come from them trickled away. The apostate had guarded every one of his possessions like it was a secret that would make him rich. If he had left them here…

_He's left you. _

Like her body had been pulled from the ocean her mind whirled.

_He's gone._

It tore her heart that she may not see him again.

_You did something he despised and now he's moved on._

The overwhelming urge to _consume_ until her body rejected it struck like lightning. Lyrium would fix this, lyrium would make her forget this… for a few hours and then the feeling would persist upon realizing the reality had not disappeared after all. Faith tensed her jaw.

_Get away from it,_ she urged herself. She took one step toward the cabinet. Stopped. This was a dance, with an uncooperative partner, the tempo unpredictable.

_Move. Away._

"Ewan will help me," she told herself, trying to be logical. Honestly, for the first time she doubted it.

_Lyrium_

"He wouldn't just leave me here!"

With a rattle, she shoved the keys in her satchel, went back out the door and endured the pain she rightly deserved.

* * *

"Why is it not working?" she hissed, trying to shove the key in the door again. Ewan's house was on the edge of Darktown, where Lowtown attached to it. Ewan called it 'Lowest town", since it was on a slope. Faith joked it marked the true ass end of Kirkwall, since it was even smaller than her place.

Mash. Not again! She looked at it. Of course. Wrong keys.

She took out the ones with 'F' written on them and tried again.

Ewan's house had no occupant. Heart pounding, still in denial, she stepped inside. All the furniture remained. The few books he had were gone. His bed and sheets remained. No pillowcase. She checked the drawers. Nothing with writing or to identify him, just scrap paper. Quills. He'd taken his potions and clothes. That custom made cabinet that used to contain flasks and jars was his most cherished item in the house. If he had left it behind, it was possible he had departed without notice, that this escape was rushed and not planned.

The lyrium's song interrupted her, singing of pain and reminding her of suffering. Even if it was a frantic attempt to escape Templars, the Guard, or simply an enemy, she suspected he would leave her an explanation. Instead, she had keys.

The memory was so pellucid, she could feel his fingers, how they wrapped around her wrist, pulling her away from the glass of his cabinet. No one was allowed to put their fingerprints on it, so she'd vindictively smudged as many markings on it as possible. It was too valuable. And yet he conjured his key to unlock it and picked out a vial for her. His voice brought her comfort.

_This is lyrium you are able to safely consume_.

His look of concentration as he glanced at her was burned into her mind.

_You… does that mean you bought it for me? _

Faith's voice had sounded innocent.

_Yes, it does. _

His hand didn't leave her wrist.

Then the room changed. The cabinet, made of iron, similar to the Viscount's Keep in shape, was forgotten to the far right. She remembered meeting his eyes as he placed the glass on the ground in front of her.

_This is what you desire…. _As he stood,her eyes followed the potion like a falling star_, and you will not have it._

With a flash, he immobilized her with a spell.

The cabinet stood as she was, empty and no longer under close inspection.

Knowing she couldn't stay here, but home wasn't an option either, Faith ran out the door and pelted to… She didn't even know. The Rose was her first plan.

* * *

"You racing somewhere, or is someone causing you trouble?" called a voice.

A Guard had spotted her on the entry to Hightown. Typical- the district was impervious to any overt suspiciousness.

As much freedom she felt with the wind rushing through her hair and no one to leer at her, it couldn't go on. The woman slowed, and tried to look composed.

"I don't know," Faith admitted, making sure not to step closer, "I just need to get away."

If first impressions were any consolation, which they never were, she'd have thought this man had a confident, mature look about him. Maybe he'd been in this job for a long time.

"Away from what?"

_He's a nice guard._ The former Templar pondered on how to answer. "Myself."

"Rough night?"

The Rose probably wasn't the best place for her to go. Hardly thinking straight, Faith blurted, "I have a problem. A problem with Chantry poison. It's horrendous. I… need to be forced into a cell or something, Guard. I have so little control over myself."

The Guard moved closer to her, and Faith brought her shoe backwards, without putting her weight on it.

_He is just a Guard. He isn't going to damage you… unless he is a corrupted Guard!_

"Have you been violent?" the Guard asked, "Are you a danger to yourself?"

Faith shook. Those words were cruel – harsh but true. "Myself. I had a mage lover. He helped me when I felt like this, but now he's gone."

If Ewan had been home all she would need to say was, "Tie me," and everything would be fine. Through restraint, she felt confident. She had control. There was no risk of guilt from a binge if no binge happened in the first place.

He was a strange man, indeed. The first time, or even many subsequent times, this exchange had happened, it had seemed more a device for Ewan to examine her emotional reactions, a curious mage trying to understand the wayward Templar. For a long while, he hadn't appeared to receive any benefit. He simply watched her struggle with her desire for lyrium and investigated on how to make a craving dissipate. She was an experiment, one he became too dedicated to finding the answer to. Yet their game slowly evolved, she couldn't place why, though it gradually became clear that through a life of fleeing city to city the apostate had learned to repress all need for human connection.

Faith panicked, never mind that her surroundings were devoid of any obvious threat, "I don't feel safe right now. I need him. I need someone to help me! I need… I need to find him. Otherwise I am dead. I might as well be a corpse."

She barely identified the Guard's reaction to her story. If pain had a colour it was smudging her eyesight, making everything difficult to see.

"Have you been to the Chantry?" the Guard asked.

Bloody Maker, the ignorance. The lack of understanding. Faith wanted to cry, but tears refused to arrive. "The Chantry threw me out!" she screamed, and then she tried to be calm, "I… Please help. I can't be on my own. I can't. "

The Guard patted Faith on the shoulder. Despite her tensing, she did not lash out. "There, there. We will find a solution. You don't seem dangerous to me." He started guiding her from the main walkway. "How did your mage friend help you?"

Faith didn't want to explain everything. "By being patient with me. And having sex with me."

She met the Guard's gaze then. Sex was easier to talk about than anything else. The Guard's brown eyes were filled with concern, maybe even curiosity. He was an older man, maybe in his forties, with a small, but well-trimmed beard.

"The Rose sounds like the place for you, doesn't it?" he suggested.

_Fucking moron._

"I can't!" Faith shouted, "I work there! Work colleagues aren't supposed to trade services!"

It was so immensely annoying too, since she had left the Rose not an hour ago.

"Maybe you can fuck me instead," she said, thinking of another idea.

"Maker." The Guard looked taken aback, but not offended. "Your name? Sorry."

"Faith."

"Faith… I am Sean… so what made you come out here?"

It was like the stupid questions would never end. It was obvious how to put the pieces together, at least to her.

"Fuck off!" Faith snapped, "Are you going to help or not?"

The Guard sighed, and peered around, before saying quietly, "Look. I don't want to have sex with you, even if I was allowed to."

"Why not?" She felt hurt by this, rejected almost. "Am I not beautiful? Does the scent of lyrium off my clothes repulse you? Am I disgusting?"

"No. It isn't anything like that. I just don't trust you."

The ethics didn't matter. If a woman provided the choice of sex as a constructive alternative to being locked away, she considered the verdict a no-brainer.

"Then learn to trust me- by having sex with me!"

The Guard looked mildly irked now, "Faith. I see you are distressed, okay? But I am not here to do that for you, alright?"

Faith snorted. "I don't care. You would be the worst in this whole city," then more aggravated, "You don't even listen to me! I don't need you!"

The Guard looked so calm. What a fool!

"Do you have any friends or family I can take you to?" he inquired.

"No!" Faith shouted, "You are so fucking stupid! Why do you think…"

"Anybody from your work?" the Guard pressed, "If you don't stop shouting my ear off, I will take you to the Gallows until you calm down. Do you want that?"

"No! I just…" Faith paused and tried to think. The Gallows. This felt like dismissal from the Gallows all over again. She couldn't go back. "I need someone to help me! I need help."

"I can see that. What about…I don't know. Do you have acquaintances you can go to? Maybe friends of friends?"

The lyrium was making her jittery and hyperactive with anxiety, yet Faith thought about it, about acquaintances from the Gallows or those her Grandpop had known. An acquaintance wasn't good enough. They would try to find solutions when there were none to find. Sensory diversion was how one dysfunctional moment became a regular moment. Despite her outward explosions, her emotions were mute, when they ought to be crackling with her words. Emotions had evaded her, and she wanted them back. She had to hurt. Somehow, she knew, that was strong enough to help her craving and her numbness. Love was so hard to find, even harder to keep. Abuse was easy. It was everywhere.

And she knew who would be the very best at hurting her and free her from this trapped, out of control feeling.

"I know someone," Faith said. She had to go- right now, before she did something stupid like punching the Guard in retaliation. "Goodnight."

"Wait," the Guard called after her, as she absconded, "Faith! Stay safe. Don't hurt yourself!"

_What the fuck do you know about what I need?_ Faith thought angrily to herself.

She walked swiftly to avoid more questions from Guards, and only stopped when she found the door she needed. It took an unfair number of knocks until it opened.

Meeran, his sense of disdain ever present, stared down at her. "Who the…oh. It's you, Faith. What are you pining for? Work?"

"Of a sort," she said, her brain still swirling, "Do you want to accompany me to drinks?"

As she had guessed, the Red Iron leader was not impressed. "Why would I want to use my increment of free time doing that?"

No matter what she said, it didn't worry her so long as she retrieved what she wanted. If Meeran didn't want to leave, she would find reason to enter.

"I have a problem," she said, realizing she wouldn't have to invent a story, "with a supplier. Of lyrium. I am wondering who else you know in the trade."

Meeran's brow furrowed. "Think you know as much as you can know, but come in. I'll check my notes just in case."

Faith reluctantly entered. The last time she had been here was when she was ill. Even though the house was in Hightown, it was diminutive. Meeran liked having expensive furniture and brands of alcohol, not a large space to place them. Crates and folders were still stacked against the walls like pillars from his days of working in finances, as if he was in a perpetual state of moving luggage but not unpacking it. This made the lounge room appear a lot smaller than it really was. The color of the walls looked brighter than she remembered, so did the lights, and the scent of alcohol was stronger. She searched for the leather sofa she used to lie on. Instead of being on the left, it had been moved a few meters to accommodate a cabinet.

"I finally cleaned it," Meeran said, talking about the house, but Faith thought it still looked messy, "Now it won't make lesser dogs trip over when they enter- only the ones who really deserve it."

Faith nodded, standing aimlessly. "It is less a piece of shit."

Meeran gave a bark of a laugh, retrieved a bottle of very high end beer from the larder and gave her the entire thing, "There you go."

"Thank you," Faith said, sitting on a rug. She hated beer, and she was certain Meeran knew that. Despite this, determined to make herself so miserable she would cry, she opened it and forced down a couple of mouthfuls. Gross. She coughed. Her self-hatred wasn't enough yet.

Meeran ignored her, but found the information he was looking for in the fourth notepad he opened, "Found the elusive blighter. Come over."

Faith moved to where Meeran was and scanned a finger down the page. Damn. He was right. "There is no one I don't already know."

"Clever work, disorganized Faith." Annoyed, Meeran haphazardly let the book fall back among the others. "The pouting–it's like you are a dying bird. Anything else? Is the whore house too pleasant for you? You feel like a challenge?"

Faith felt fear envelop her. Meeran was too good a guesser, even if her contract at the Red Iron wasn't what she wanted to change. "Yes," she said, with a mouthful and swallow of beer. "Do you want to fuck me? I'd let you for free."

When she started working at the Red Iron, the idea of saying these words was lunacy. No, it still was. She had never felt so much self-loathing. The old crook was disgusting, in nearly every possible way, from his balding spots to the glimmer of pure evil in his golden eyes. The clothes, she had to admit, could probably pay for her lyrium for a month, but sadly sex required these were laid aside. The thought of him undressing alone sent chills up her spine.

Her boss looked confused. "What's the catch? Do you want to transfer some innovative cunt disease of yours onto me? Don't be coy. I know how much you hate me."

_Why is he resisting? _She wondered,_ Doesn't he want to take me, because I am a useless, dysfunctional Chantry machine?_

Not knowing how to define herself outside of these terms, the thought of Meeran rejecting her, the most despicable person she knew, made her wonder how much more hideous of a person _she_ was. What was lower than being useless? He had to want to break her. That was just what he did.

"I am only as sick as you want me to be," Faith said, and the lyrium song, her brain and her body felt like three separate entities, out of alignment. "I respect you more than I despise you."

Without waiting for Meeran to respond, Faith started to remove her high heels and clothes, just a simple dress, stockings and underclothes. In those days, her garb was plain. Meeran hardly even looked at her, making her feel worse. Then she remembered – maybe he was already breaking her. This was what he wanted, what _she_ had sought him for. Maybe this would be okay.

"I need you," Faith said, and she grabbed his arm, to pull him towards her. "I need you inside me. I want you to have me."

In Meeran's language this roughly translated to, _'I am clingy. I am already broken and I want you to destroy me.'_ And that was the real meaning she wanted to get across. He was the last person in the city she wanted to share her body with (it otherwise would have been Knight Commander Guylian, but good riddance he was dead). That was why he was the ideal candidate. Thankfully the house was well heated and Faith did not feel physically uncomfortable wearing nothing.

Meeran had no kindness in his eyes. "I have no use for a sentimental little girl. You have a woman's body but your heart is like that of a ruddy baby. All you women are like that. Needy attention whores. Act like a grown up."

"I am!" Faith shouted. He should have taken her already. "I need you. I would give up everything to be yours."

"Then give up your act and piss off," Meeran said, "You are only fuckable to the most boring low lives, and lacklustre does not define me. Simple solution, attention wench."

Speaking in opposites…. Or wasn't he? Faith started to feel like she was about to cry. Good. Her plan was working. "No!"

"No?"

"I need you to help me," she moaned, embarrassed she was asking.

"Why?"

"Ewan left."

"Who?"

"The mage I told you about when I started working for you- the one who stopped my withdrawal."

"I must have forgotten. Poor Faith."

Now Meeran was starting to undo his belt. "Has his prick been inside you?"

Faith nodded, both repulsed and intrigued by the belt that Meeran put to one side. He seemed honestly bored.

"In how many holes?"

Faith tried to think on what Meeran would do with the information if she told the truth.

"All of them," he answered the question for her. "You depraved slag. I was thinking you liked tits more."

He unbuttoned one button on his trousers and left it at that. Then her boss started to move closer to her side. "Do you like cocks now?"

Faith flushed and avoided his eye. "I liked his."

"He isn't around to force it wherever he likes anymore."

"I don't know where he is!" she yelled. Nervous, she averted her eyes from Meeran's crotch, his arousal now apparent and bothering her. "He didn't leave a note."

"He doesn't care, that's why," Meeran said. He grabbed Faith's hand. "You wanted him to stick around to play with you, but he realized the truth. You're like ice. I bet you didn't return the favour."

Faith shook and tears started to well in her eyes. Her throat burned. "That's not true!" As the craving drowned in the emotion, her mind fluctuated between the impulse to drink all the beer, and how she felt about Ewan. Admitting that was too difficult, so desperate to prove she wasn't cold, another story struggled to the surface. "I wanted him to t-t-to… im-impregnate me."

"You were trying to get pregnant? You're even more idiotic than I thought."

Hoping that Meeran would use the information against her, she explained in unnecessary detail. "Not for children. Th… I just wanted him to. I used a potion... for two and a half years. One day I stopped taking it. I…I... nothing happened." Like the day when this reality crashed down on her, that it wasn't a result of bad timing, not eating properly or trying, tears fell down her face. "It was just a feeling I had."

"You are a lying, self-serving bitch." Meeran seemed to be enjoying the conversation. He unhooked one more button of his trousers. "Knowing you, you would have killed the flesh monster if your attempts worked."

"I'm no fool," she managed through tears, "I couldn't have raised one. It probably would have died inside me. But that was better than merely stealing lives away."

"You do only destroy. There is no humanity inside you. Even your body knows it." The Red Iron leader paused, but clearly Faith wasn't going to stop crying. "Wherever he went, he didn't take you with him. Does that make you want pampering?"

Faith took a moment to wipe her eyes. "I want to get hurt. I don't care how it happens."

"That's still not good enough, Faith."

"Tell me how to be enough."

"Stay still."

Faith shook even as she did not back away and Meeran moved her knees apart and wedged a few fingers -with sharp nails- inside her. She didn't desire him or sex at all, and he knew it.

"Faith, you're plain miserable…" Meeran muttered. He didn't sound it, but no doubt he was surprised. "I could be wrong about you."

He smiled.

Faith did her best not to move as Meeran forced another three fingers inside and spread them apart, forcing her open, even as she body and mind fought against it. She flinched.

"Are you going to report me," Meeran mumbled, "once you leave and return to your senses?"

"N-no- ow, ow…"

She took a sharp intake of breath.

"Why is that?"

"I am doing this on purpose."

"You are."

"I want you."

"Faith. You are a twisted and a liar."

Yes she was lying about desiring him. "...Help me."

Meeran smirked. "The mage doesn't understand you. You say you wanted his babies but that's a lie too. That apostate kicked some maternal instinct in you. What does that mean, Faith?"

Overwhelmed, Faith continued to cry, "It m-m-means that I-I-I'm _stupid_."

"Close that fissure you call a mouth. You are lying again."

"I hate him!" Faith screamed, "I hate you!"

"You hate him. Hmm."

Meeran removed his fingers from inside, and Faith let out a shudder of relief. Soon, this would be over.

"Roll over."

Faith did as she was told.

"I don't want to fuck you," he said.

"Why n-not?" The nerves made her shake uncontrollably. "Haven't I entertained you yet?"

"Not as much as you think."

"But you are hard."

"And you are not wet."

Faith sobbed, "I am trying."

"Pathetic attempt, then. You just want me to hurt you."

"I want sex. I promise. I want lyrium too."

"Lies, lies, lies… did you invent the language of _lying_?"

She groaned as Meeran tipped the rest of the beverage over her, leaving her to shiver from the cold. Before the bitter, unworldly scent reached her nostrils, he smashed the glass against her left shoulder. Hiding her face so the glass wouldn't hit her face, Faith felt a sharp sting on her skin.

"That's all I had, sorry."

Meeran grabbed hold of her arms and pulled them up to their point of resistance. Instinctively Faith tried to bring them back down, growled and kicked at him.

At this angle he easily overpowered her. Meeran sounded amused, "She _growls_. That's a malicious growl, Faith. Can you squeal too?"

"Stop stop, stop…" Andraste's corpse, she sounded like a child, "Don't dislocate my shoulders!"

"You don't need them. Who do you have to hold them with?"

"Please don't!"

"Are you going to remedy your pitiful lie?"

"I don't– ow- when Ewan noticed I no longer had that potion around," she struggled to speak through her hysteria, "he asked – why- why? It was an accident! I lied, I lied. I swear… I wanted to check if I could… he… said he understood... And I wanted his babies. I had never wanted that before. He seemed happy to hear it. It meant something. That I said that."

Meeran leaned his weight against her. "I don't think you know how to tell when someone is disgusted."

Faith screamed as a distinct grinding then a 'pop' sound was heard from somewhere behind her. She no longer had control over her shoulders. Where the joints had been attached she felt a terrible ache. When she tried to pull them free, nothing happened. He let her arms fall, deformed, onto her. But she was sobbing now, unimpeded. Her grief tore at her in all its glory. Finally she was no longer a weapon, but a human.

* * *

"Faith," Lusine said, as Faith was about to leave work, walking stick in hand. "Before you head home." She pointed to her office. "I would like to speak to you."

Faith nodded and limped inside. She suspected what this was about. Even if she was nervous, she knew how to hide it.

Lusine's office reminded Faith of her Grandpop's house, for the portraits of loved ones, the tidiness, and trinkets. Her boss brought the chair from the other side of the desk in front of it, so the two women were face to face.

"What is it?" Faith asked.

"Mistress, every time you become prey to illness, it…" Lusine paused, maybe thinking. "Your unpredictability is taxing to accommodate. Why do you fall victim to illness so frequently? Are you not eating well?"

Faith felt nervous. Elimination was a daunting game. "I eat no different to how I did when I started."

"Are you using the correct medicine?"

"Yes," Faith replied. The former Templar had suffered two minor strokes and many bouts of the flu on top of all the bones that had been broken and joints pulled apart. Meeran bought her whatever she needed to repair and hide the damage—the help of mages, lyrium she couldn't afford and other supplies she couldn't pay for.

Lusine tapped one foot on the floor.

"What?" Faith inquired.

Lusine continued to tap her foot.

"WHAT?"

Her boss' foot halted. "I do not take pride in keeping capricious employees." Faith held her tongue. "If you do not know what has caused it, and there is no chance of reparation, I recommend you take your business elsewhere."

Not 'you are fired' but 'go away'. Somehow it sounded worse. Faith inhaled sharply.

"You want to dismiss me because of something that isn't my fault?" she demanded. "I don't ask the Dead Maker to make me sick. I like working here!"

"I appreciate that, Faith. But I can't run a business the way your health is declining. You spent almost this entire month at home. I don't understand what has changed in the past few months, but it is unsustainable."

There it was: the moment she could confess the truth of what had been happening. But even now, confronted, it was difficult. So few would understand her behaviours… "I don't mean to," Faith urged, "I promise."

"I believe you," Lusine drawled, "but like I said, if you don't understand why this is occurring I shall take drastic measures." She observed her employee carefully. "Is there anything you can share that might sway me?"

Faith looked away from Lusine. 'No' was her go-to response, but she wanted to keep her job far more intensely than preserve her pride or facade of indifference. Getting fired meant being on the street again. Avoiding that was more important than anything.

Tears fell before she could stop them, "Please! I am sorry! I am so sorry."

"I am tired of your apologies, Mistress. Empty words won't solve this problem."

"They're not empty!" Faith's desperation made her voice augment in pitch. "My words aren't empty."

Dreading, she knew that if someone was claiming her words didn't mean anything anymore, she'd passed a certain point. She would have to do a lot of work to regain any trust. Maybe that was impossible.

"Do you have anything more to say? Something I have not already heard more times than I care for."

Faith shook her head despite herself. Hiding was futile. This habit had to break. Yet, communicating it outright was terrifying. Perhaps she would get fired anyway for telling the truth. She leaned forward and covered her face in her hands. "I need help. I need help. But i don't know what to do. I have no idea what to do anymore."

Lusine waited until a gap appeared between her sobs, "Help with what, Miss Adessi?"

By Guylian's corpse, Lusine sounded like a mother.

Faith couldn't bring herself to expand yet. Her voice trembled and she blubbered, "I have a problem…"

A pause. Faith wished Lusine could guess, even if that was impossible. It was so difficult to talk about.

"Is this the lyrium making you ill?" Lusine inquired.

"No," Faith croaked with a shake of her head, and she gave the most simplistic explanation of the truth, "myself."

She feared the worst and tried to stop crying so she wouldn't look more deranged than she probably already did. The chair scraped against the floor and Lusine tapped Faith's knee. "Look up, Faith. Look at me. Don't leave me waiting."

Faith reluctantly did as she was asked. Lusine scrutinized Faith's expression with harshness, but underneath that lay concern.

"Do you have anywhere else to be today?"

"I…" Faith considered this. "No."

"Wait in the staff room," Lusine advised. "I will check the books and manage the next rush of customers. Then I expect you back in my office."

A show of clemency, perhaps. Faith wasn't going to refuse this time. "I will, Madame."

* * *

9: 30

The sound of little feet danced around her, something that confused her all the more. She'd had not drunk much. It was strange she felt so upset.

"I DON'T WANT FOOD!"

"I am getting your mother!"

Damn, why'd they have to be so _cute_, even if they were irksome and noisy? Faith didn't _want_ to be special to Meeran. It triggered all her confusion. "Like I said, I don't hurt myself like that anymore."

"Then why did you send Raleigh to me?"

Faith felt fear fill her, debating whether she should be honest about this or not. "I wanted him to stay with me. But he needed to have money."

"Putting money and lyrium before everyone, like usual," Meeran mumbled. "You sent him to me knowing that I would use him to get to you."

"I… thought you would have gotten over it."

"Faith, I know you are not that hollow skulled. You knew."

"I am telling you again I am not interested." Faith took a deep breath. "Even if I knew before. Even if you have a point. I am telling you 'no' now."

Maybe that happened earlier in the night.

"To the Maker with all this dirt, I'm sorry for hurting and using puny Raleigh. I didn't mean to upset you. Maybe you can come over and sleep on the couch, give you two some time away from each other."

"I like being around him."

"Why, though? "

"He… is… rather similar to me."

"Are we talking about the same Raleigh? "

"Not likely," Faith replied plainly, "There's something comforting about meeting a person similar to oneself."

"Pull the worms from your brain. I'd hate to meet me."

"Raleigh and I work together well," Faith said, "and I think I might be able to learn to be a nicer person."

"Noble goal," Meeran admitted, "but I don't see it happening."

If they had all night to argue, Faith would have said, "I doubt you know about achieving noble goals," but she went the polite, grating route - "I don't care about receiving your approval."

That could have happened later.

An ear-splitting _shring_ burst from somewhere behind her and a flash of silver light lit up the tavern, to the bewilderment of many- the work of one using lyrium. A crash followed. She didn't need to check at the table in the corner of the tavern to check who had done it.

_Samson!_

* * *

Faith felt like her face was getting pulled at how much she had frowned all day. To the void, all this stress was going to make her look like Lusine years before she needed to. Feeling slightly hopeful at his open-mindedness, she met his eyes. Samson's expression had a distance that made him appear more like a ghost- almost like withdrawal all over again. He had been appearing this way every single day. As much as it pained her to see, she knew it was inevitable. Meeran's work varied from confrontational to soul destroying. And she felt even worse she had led him to this. Now the story was shared, the man hardly looked eased of his conscience.

They were at the dinner table. The food had been eaten quickly as it had been made in a small amount. Faith had needed to show Samson the recipe she wanted him to make, and had dumbed it down after he displayed he was not the most apt with preparing food. He seemed overly cautious and unsure of himself. Hopefully his confidence would improve with time.

As though Samson didn't like what Faith could see inside, he avoided her eye for a second, before turning back.

"Lusine helped you?" he sounded surprised. He wasn't so terrible at listening. He had frowned at her brief summaries on the types of injuries Meeran would inflict on her, but he hadn't said she was mental or anything.

"Lusine was ready to be rid of me. She told me to stop seeing him, that this need to inflict pain on myself was far more dangerous than the lyrium. '_Yes_,' I agreed_, 'but I don't know what to do.'_ Meeran had become a second addiction to me. It made me feel in control of my lyrium consumption. I feared I would either permanently disable or kill myself by overdose if Meeran was no longer there. Lusine said she'd ask around for ideas. But I could only keep my job if I promised to tell him I wasn't interested."

Samson appeared confused, "Meeran said you banned him from the Rose."

Faith ate a bit of the stew. It was lukewarm. "I didn't follow through on what I promised Lusine, not immediately. Meeran was determined to keep me. He knew how to get into my head. I said,_ 'Fine, just see me at work_.' She was so angry with me."

"If Meeran's a tosser at the Rose then at least you are not by yourself," Samson remarked.

"That's correct," Faith said, "Meeran isn't fool enough to resort to his depraved ways in the Rose. He never has. It didn't change anything."

"Why not?"

"He behaved like a decent human being the time he saw me there," Faith said, "Sadly, it was all a game to him, part of that game. Finally, pleasing a woman was exciting, because it turned me into a needy, ruined pile of nonsense. He enjoys inflicting emotional and mental pain on others, and usually that involves violating consent. But he didn't have to do that with me that time."

"I don't get it. If someone stopped destroying me, I would be relieved."

"Sex with Meeran was never to feel good. It was a self-inflicted punishment," Faith flushed darker, "So his kindness was a shock. I got very confused. He told me to prove that I wanted to leave the Iron, to stop visiting him, that I wasn't lured to suffering more than pleasure. I… didn't know how. I couldn't answer. I just knew I didn't want to lose this job over a compulsion. Making it to premium service was the most I'd accomplished outside the Gallows, and if I couldn't be less self-destructive I wouldn't be able to work another day in my life. He said he would have paid for whatever I wanted, that I wouldn't _have_ to work. I started crying and knocked loudly at the door until someone answered it. That was all I had left in me to do to. Lusine kicked his ass. She banned him for me."

Samson had a calculating expression on his face, "And you haven't crawled back to him since?"

"No. Lusine and I decided on how I could hurt myself without it damaging me," Faith said, "She checks to make sure I am fine on occasion. I appreciate that. Mostly, I try to remember what Ewan told me when he saved me… he didn't think I deserved to suffer so much, even if he hated what I represented. That I can despise what labels I have – a rejected Templar, a mercenary, but that doesn't mean _I_ deserve to suffer. I only hope he didn't change his mind about that."

Some of the heaviness had left Samson's demeanour. "I don't think you deserve to be in pain," he said. "Like you said, after a while, suffering makes people sick. Then they can't even be kind."

"Thank you," Faith said. She probably could have complimented him for listening for such a bloody long time, for not judging her too harshly. "It is my dream to be a kind person. I hope that's what I am."

"I want to know what genuine kindness is," Samson said, "and never lose sight of what it looks like."

"Yes," Faith agreed, "It is a harrowing task to be kind when the world is a bastard to you."

Samson chuckled. "Does that mean I'm the world, Faith?"

Faith hadn't expected him to respond like that. His influence on her life, his persistence to help her, had touched her deeper than any amount of flesh. She felt exposed, found out, like everything could fall apart.

In the panic of the moment, she replied, "You hold yourself in far too high esteem."

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ This chapter was beta-d by two people - Schattenriss and Flaminea. Thank you for the input.

Schattenriss suggested the chapter title, from the song "Not Every Pain Hurts" by Lacrimosa.

I am going to address a consent mine field here, on the off chance someone misinterprets. I don't think anyone currently reading my story will, but it is worth mentioning from a character analysis standpoint if nothing else.

You can view Meeran and Faith's relationship from a few different angles. I want to make it clear that my intention was to portray abuse. This should be, and I hope it is, very obvious.

It gets a bit more complicated once you address it from a BDSM perspective, but it should still be viewed as abuse.

The latest version of the Diagnostic Manual of Statistical Disorders labels sadism and masochism as only a dysfunctional sexual interest when it violates consent. This definition is not ideal and it has been criticized. In the BDSM community there's something called 'consensual non consent'. This is where fantasies of being forced upon or abused can be explored. This doesn't mean that the concept of boundaries goes out the window, and that means that isn't what Meeran and Faith's dynamic was. Boundaries were not explored in depth and even if they were Meeran would have no interest in listening to them. That means it is abuse.

Faith may have said 'I don't care how I get hurt' it's pretty obvious that there are some limits she doesn't want crossed, though perhaps she was unaware of them and didn't give it a lot of thought. That doesn't mean cues of 'no' or discomfort should be ignored.

A couple of month's pass where they see each other more and more frequently, and it is likely that there were moments where Meeran wasn't as awful (to keep her psychologically trapped there) but I have not shown that nuance.

I know of some that find BDSM helps them with mental illness and manage emotions. Faith technically falls into this category in both accounts, although the coping mechanism with Meeran here is self harm. She wanted to severely hurt herself, but not be the one to do it. With Ewan, it wasn't about self harm (or if it was, it wasn't to an unsafe, non consensual extent).

Self harm is a coping mechanism for a lot of people. It is not an ideal mechanism, although for some it is the only one they have. In psychology we are taught that there are safe and unsafe ways to self harm. Faith was in the risky category here.

I shouldn't have to explain these things, but hopefully it all makes sense.

Next chapter is back to Samson's POV.


	26. Erant Autem Dies - Those Were the Days

Samson stared at his plate unwaveringly, tensing from anxiety. He had roasted vegetables and fish, although he hadn't put enough lard in, or cooked it for too long, because when he'd scooped it out of the baking dish chunks had been glued to the bottom and it broke apart. Still, he kept the broken bits for himself and gave Faith the decently cooked pieces, even if some of the edges remained burnt. She'd ate it slowly and carefully, as if judging every single aspect.

When he'd retrieved the salt for her and she'd sprinkled it on, he couldn't take the tension anymore. "What do you think?"

"It has exceeded my expectations," Faith decided, "Thank you for cooking."

Samson grinned. "Thank you."

"I was expected something inedible," Faith explained, "instead you have created an average meal."

"YES!"

The Broken Spine incident had marked when his real adventure began, a life that had no resemblance whatsoever to anything he had done before. Samson's afternoon hours were spent helping to cook and run errands for Faith, for she slept much of the time, too weary to raise her head. He politely asked the public for coin in the evenings, having decided to approach Meeran in a few weeks. It was not fun. Their financial situation, as temporary as he assured himself it would be, was disastrous. However, there was one mean it could be slightly improved.

Or so he told himself, as they sat on the floor with cards in hand one afternoon. Escoba was an Antivan card game, which Samson found he enjoyed more than chess.

"We have a predicament," he said, putting down a 12 and positioning a 3 face down in front of him.

Faith made a sound to indicate she was listening and lowered a 7.

"We're out of food," he said.

"Yes," she acknowledged.

"So I won't be able to put aside any I scrap tonight for lyrium." Samson rid his hand of a 2.

"We won't eat then," Faith said. After hesitating, she lowered a 5 and gathered all the cards on the floor in her palms. The recalcitrant expression resembled a snake, as if she was going to throw the cards at him.

"Actually, I like eating," he retorted, "That's a stupid idea."

"A human can survive for around two weeks without food," Faith explained, dealing three cards to herself, "and three days without water. Lyrium has _some_ water in it."

"Not eating will only slow down killing me if I'm lounging in a gutter."

"Then curl up in a ball outside and pout."

_No, I'm not going to lie there like a dead thing,_ was going to be his answer. Though it wasn't clear when Faith was going to be able to work again, hopefully soon – maybe this was going to be the temporary plan.

"I'll try, but it's going to be a pretty lonesome night," he admitted, "It'll be a bleeding miracle if anyone sees me in the dark. I'll make sure to beg for food while I'm at it."

"People are usually more content to give up food." She dealt three cards toward him, and looked at hers, contritely. "I'm sorry. I guess I've trained myself not to give into hunger from the times when I've slipped and drunk more than I'm supposed to. Not eating is also how I hurt myself sometimes."

Samson hesitated, cards all but forgotten. "Guess I've got training to do."

Suddenly realizing he wanted to do more with his hands than play cards today, he pushed them aside and lay down on the ground. "How's this?"

Even on this angle he enjoyed Faith's little smile.

* * *

It was so cold that it was ridiculous, but Samson kept to Faith's instruction to look as useless as possible. He'd chosen to stay against a wall of Lowtown that blocked most of the gusty air. Truth be told, he didn't feel like talking to anyone tonight. Unless passers-by had done something nice, he rarely remembered their faces. At least these hours meant he wouldn't come across Cullen or any of his fellow Templars, he kept telling himself.

When his fingers became so numb with frost he couldn't bend them, a man close to Meeran's age with grey hair sat down beside him, a bottle of alcohol in his hand. In the dark Samson barely saw his face.

"Chilly night, isn't it?" the stranger grumbled, sniffing loudly. "Bleeding terrible shit."

Samson tried to move his hand, but couldn't. "Yeah."

_Don't think this lad is dangerous,_ he assessed the situation as quickly as he could, _just bored. _

"What are you trying to fork out of people lying there?"

"Coin or food," Samson replied, "but if you can spare neither remember to take your pity with you when you leave."

The man chuckled. "I don't pity… okay, maybe I do –a _bit_, I won't fib, but not for the reasons you think."

Samson highly doubted this. "Meaning what?"

The stranger swore as he spilt some of his drink. "I had my turn scavenging. It wasn't my most shameful moments, and that makes it all sound bloody worse. But whenever I promenade around this city and see all the charming people like you I think… that could be me. That _used_ to be me. I hope it won't happen again."

The former Templar wasn't entirely sure what to think. "What were you begging for?"

"That's none of your business," the man snapped, but he chuckled, "but I'll give the benefit of the doubt for once. I was chasing my losses."

"Gambling?"

"Mara – she left me - told me I had lost my mind to the habit, though I told her 'How do you think it feels to try stop?' I still think she had it the wrong way around."

_Who's Mara?_ Samson thought, but the man was going on a ramble and no amount of interjections was going to stop the diatribe or change the direction. Though he thought he understood part of what this stranger was talking about with trying to break an addiction.

"My family line has a lot of riches behind it. I assure you that's the cold truth of it, but don't look at me for proof. I can't live up to the name. No one sees me like those well-off, cultured types."

"It's too dark to see you anyway," Samson said, and he hoped the comment was interpreted as empathetic rather than a means to confirm this strangers frustrations.

"Do you know the Amells?"

"I've lived most of my life in the Circle." Samson said, "Before that, Lowtown, so… I don't know anything."

"You Circle lot have access to plenty of books." The man didn't sound like he believed Samson's claim. "You must be well-read, even if you don't know anything else."

"Yeah, rubbish from hundreds of years ago," Samson said.

"Templars, hmm…" the man hummed, "Do you have somewhere to live?"

"Kind of," Samson replied, "The lady I'm living with is even more hooked on the blue than I am."

He passed the point of caring what he said. This bloke was drunk and probably wouldn't remember the conversation.

"Sometimes I ponder on whether Mara would have left me if she understood my problems better," the stranger mumbled, "Does it make it easier or worse? What do you think?"

"I don't know," Samson admitted. It was pleasant to have someone who understood, though on the other hand it meant that there were two sets of addictions to manage and not one.

"How does she earn her money?"

"Whoring."

"The Rose?"

"Yeah."

"That should earn a reasonable wage. Which one of the girls is she?"

_Firstly, she's more mature than a 'girl'._ Samson wasn't sure whether he should answer, though he had nothing better to do and didn't want the stranger to leave. "The one who's off sick right now."

"I don't go there often enough to know," the man confessed, "Does she treat you much differently to her customers?"

"Dunno."

"How can you not know?"

The stranger sounded frustrated.

"It's a long story."

"Luckily I have the time for a lengthy story," the man said, "You want some of your lyrium, I guess? I know a merchant who might sell me a flask at a slightly cheaper price."

"Cheap lyrium is still expensive," Samson said, "Maybe when you're not on the piss. For now, if you want to help, I'd appreciate some food, or maybe a blanket, and while you're at it, fetch yourself some water to sober up. I'll be round here most nights."

"Right." The stranger finished the last of his drink. "Your name in case I need to go looking for you?"

"Samson."

"Gamlen." He moved slightly closer to where Samson was and patted his head, though his hands were wet from the ice. "Hope you get some more coin to bring back to your lady friend. Maker knows they can be impossible to please."

Samson didn't realize it until Gamlen was out of sight that he actually wouldn't have minded if the drunk had stayed to talk to him for a few more hours.

This debt-stricken Amell was Samson's first, very loyal coin giver. The next time he saw Samson he gave him an old blanket and what looked like a table cloth with alcohol stains on it, and despite it being grotty and louche Samson grew acquainted to the smell. Far more than the financial gain, he liked that Gamlen sometimes came to complain when he was having trouble with his gambling problem. And as time went on Samson learned to appreciate the opportunity to whine about his lack of lyrium too. Then they'd complain about the day's troubles, pondered on ideals that felt so out of reach, like daydreaming on what it was like to have a rich life, and shared personal anecdotes.

One of those stories had involved Zoe and what happened when she came to visit.

* * *

He waited at a table in the less rowdy side of the Hanged Man, feeling his heart tremble to the flurry of activity around him, like the ocean throwing itself against a single stone marker. Wherever he looked, he noticed details to frame demure sense of romanticism, like candles, which he'd moved from his table to another one near the fire, and red leaves that had been kicked around from the entrance, which he kicked further away from where he was seated, the wide lanterns hanging from the ceiling that produced a warm ambience, and finally, the music. It was soon enough in the evening that no debauch fools had spilled drinks on the wooden floorboards yet.

It was the thought of Zoe crying that upset him, the chance he might make her cry again. Samson swore he'd do everything he could to avoid it. Had Jed mentioned the events of The Broken Spine to his sister? The water he sipped held its familiar 'Hanged Man' quality, bringing back memories of being drunk with Bailey and his friends. Yet he was alone and Bailey was too, he presumed. He wasn't sure. The past was just that, too distant from the present, no longer important, he reminded himself. Seeing Zoe would not inspire a whisper of warmth or sadness. He told himself he wouldn't feel anything for her.

_What by the Maker are you wearing, _he thought to himself, disdainful, _were you trying to be pretty,_ _you son of a bitch?_

It was only a dark button up shirt, yet he had spent too long trying to determine if it was better to look nice or not, scanning at the bar, the other tables and the entrance. A woman in an olive dress with long sleeves and a leather belt entered the sea of thickening customers, looking slightly lost. He took a double take. That wasn't a Zoe in her Templar armor, but plain garb. Part of her hair was in a braid, how she sometimes used to wear it. He didn't wave, but enjoyed watching her until she spotted him, those eyes radiating with more than he remembered. Maker, she was still beautiful, yet very much the same, a precious diadem frozen in time, something he could look at but not touch.

Zoe waved and didn't reach the table until she'd purchased two drinks. He admired her then too, didn't know how to stop, and hummed to the music as though serenading her. In those moments, he forgot he was worried or what he was worried about, treasuring an once-in-a-lifetime moment.

"You like mead, right?" she cautioned, sitting opposite and pushing one glass toward him.

"Good evening, sister," Samson said, doing his best imitation of what he hoped was a charming grin. It was an unneeded generosity that she purchased a drink, and his words expressed his thanks.

It was a blessing to see her up close, her smile not skewed by the Gallows cruelty, his sickness and the night sky. The detail was astonishing. He could see every crinkle in her clothes and near her eyes when she grinned, like the night he held her against him, except this time her beauty didn't overtake him. There was only Zoe, a young lady with a winning smile. The bard was rumbling a song about traveling through the Frostback Mountains, although it had a faster tempo than the lyrics denoted it should.

Zoe chuckled. "Thanks for meeting me. This is a fitting place to get sappy, isn't it?"

"Only in right company," he agreed, feeling a hint of pride. He'd succeeded in talking to her again. It was getting easier, despite knowing how her breasts and hips looked like under the fabric. This was how he'd always wanted to converse -calm and collected.

Samson considered mentioning the dress, but Chandler's words entered his head, that maybe Zoe was suppressing a desire to keep him close. He wondered if it had all been some joke or exaggeration like the Templar had suggested. It was impossible to think about Zoe these days without this crossing his mind.

"I'm sitting at the wrong table then?" Zoe toyed, to which Samson laughed.

She took a large gulp at her glass, drinking like a bloke would, something that made his heart jump. "Where… are the candles?"

"Er, dunno. They ran out of 'em?"

"That's out of order."

"Yeah. The staff are idiots." Samson smiled despite himself. He didn't want the silence to prolong enough for his brain to disappear. "You wanted to reply to my letter?"

Zoe laughed and slammed her hand on the table. It wasn't obvious why. It reminded Samson of departing the Gallows. That's right; she'd said she got overly nervous once she'd slept with somebody.

It was the very opposite for Samson, it seemed.

"Do I still make you nervous, sweetie?" he asked. It came naturally, with no need to fight it.

"S-sorry!" Zoe said with a laugh too attractive for a tavern like this, taking another gulp of mead. "Y-Yes, you do. Andraste's fingernails, I meant _no_. Iwant to reply to the letter."

How long did her post-shagging nerves last? She hadn't been this way when the last time they had spoken outside the Gallows. The memories of his withdrawal were foggy, though not that one. His eyes dropped to the glass in front of him, full to the brim with honey coloured syrup, glittering with condensation, while Zoe's was almost empty. Maybe there was some way he could help her. Samson took Zoe's glass and exchanged it with his own, leaving her with more. "That's better."

The butterfly seemed to ignore this. Her eyes watching his finger marks that had broken the veil of fog on the glass; she cleared her throat and raised her hand. "Present for you, brother."

She held out an envelope, which Samson took and opened. Tilting his head confused, he looked at the page. It wasn't a new letter, not even Zoe's letter, but his response to Phillipa's, _his_ hand writing.

"Phillipa thought it was better you get this in person."

Knowing how Samson often used the other sides of paper to respond, he flipped it over. He read only two words: _Thank you_.

"I was expecting something… longer," Samson said blankly, remembering how in response to his first letter Philipa had penned down a novel.

"Expectations…" Zoe repeated, blankly, drinking more alcohol. She picked out another letter from her pocket, unfolded it and glanced at it before peering at Samson's jaw. "The mercenary work," she continued, and Samson didn't have the heart to add that his employment had changed somewhat, _again_. "I don't care, not that much. I guess I hope you are… are the jobs okay?" She turned her head away to the side. "…without going into details. Like you said, I don't think giving too much away is a good idea."

"It's okay. I only do the jobs I want," Samson said shortly, "What should I tell you then? For you, sister, you could ask for detail and I would give it."

The words '_I don't think giving too much away is a good idea' _echoed in his head, to one of those tunnels under Darktown, lost forever in a labyrinth.

Zoe met his gaze, a lot calmer now. "If I ask how you are, tell me everything. As for the rest, maybe when I'm a bit older." She chuckled, perhaps mocking herself, and Samson felt distanced. The comment didn't make sense. How much older beyond 25 did one have to be to reach maturity? Positivity rang in her voice, strength. He found himself enamoured with it, the same as he always had.

Limp with mead, Zoe rested her jaw against her palm, her teeth sparkling at him. "So… how are you?"

"Content to see you," Samson replied immediately, "Good," he added, trying to live up to what Zoe asked of him, "Thriving enough for you not to worry."

It was one of his more pathetic lies. He was in a rough patch right now, but he hadn't dropped dead yet. That counted for something.

Maybe he couldn't do as she wanted. If she was ever going to cry again at his expense, he didn't think he could comfort her. There was a need to keep her happy, a desperation to keep seeing her as she was right now.

Zoe grinned wider in impeccable detail even though the smoke from the faraway fire obscured her features. "Even withdrawal?"

"Cravings," Samson said solemn.

"Oh?" Zoe divulged interest. "Is it like wanting custard tarts?"

"Far worse." He snickered at the absurdity of the comparison. "It is like bees lured to pollen...or… if refusal of a custard tart threatened your very existence."

"I quite like eating custard without thinking I'm going to die," Zoe said, lightly, "You're a busy bee, then? Those feisty things are hard workers."

"Annoying, too," Samson said with a smirk, and he waved his finger around, "bzzz, bzzzz, bzzzzzz…."

Either completely captivated or somewhat repulsed, Zoe chuckled and shielded her face. "Don't get me! I'm allergic."

Samson lowered his hand and sipped his drink until the girl let her arms fall.

"That's going to cause problems, isn't it?" he said calmly, but he could sense Zoe was subtly refusing his advances, despite her air of innocence.

"You're not the only one who has changed," she said slowly, bringing her attention back to the letter, "Your leaving made me start questioning everything a lot more. Philipa and Maddox made me doubt. I need to re-evaluate who I am and what I stand for."

Zoe was enduring the same battle as him, Philipa and Chandler. It seemed Cullen was the only one left who hadn't changed… at least, not in a good way. Samson wanted to thread his fingers with hers, but he also knew he couldn't. Maybe if he looked forlorn enough Zoe could understand. "You're not any closer to finding the answers?"

There was a longing in her eyes, as though she was pondering her entire life in seconds. "Chandler has been trying to comfort Phillipa – can you believe it?"

"Really?" Samson tried to feign disbelief, not expecting Zoe raise the topic.

"Yeah. It's… very weird. We have been speaking a lot. I bet you can't imagine that either."

He could, but he didn't want to admit that it bothered him. For one, Zoe might have told Chandler about how Zoe and Samson had slept together. That was unnerving.

"I don't know what to think of him." She rotated her glass in a circle in its place. "Sometimes, he reminds me of you, but he doesn't make me laugh in the same way."

Samson was stumped. He made her laugh, but not for good reasons. "Probably because Chandler doesn't blunder with speaking."

Zoe laughed, and she surveyed him calmer, with more intensity. "You're nicer, though."

The merry atmosphere of the Hanged Man had never seemed colder within the midst of a compliment. A frisson quickly embittered into hopelessness, like the ember of fire turning to black in the air, his soul darkening with it. He partially sought to ask if Zoe was allured to Chandler, but that would throw them into a river of feelings littered with many jagged stones. The potential that Zoe was in denial was a sharp edge that would draw blood. Whether or not such a stone lived there was irrelevant. Searching the waters was a poor choice. He had to protect… his silly friend.

"I presumed you needed to talk to me urgently," Samson said carefully.

"Yes, that's true." Zoe seemed to regain composure. She sat straighter in her chair and tried to smooth out her dress. "You know about how Phillipa might be transferred, don't you?"

Samson's heart jumped. Had Chandler mentioned their entire conversation? Suddenly sweat gathered in his palms, clammy like their abandoned glasses. This _couldn't_ be happening.

"I do."

"Phillipa decided she wants to leave," Zoe explained, "She's filled out the paperwork and all that. Meredith and Orsino had written letters of recommendation. We sent them yesterday. Orsino reckons her chances are very good. Even if her record is no longer perfect, she's too much a high achiever to be dismissed outright."

"Which Circle is Phillipa applying to?" Samson asked.

"The White Spire," Zoe responded.

"Which one's that?"

"Orlais."

"Oh yeah, right."

In truth, he had no opinion on the other Circles, so this information didn't startle or evoke him.

Zoe put on her best imitation of Orlesian, "_Et avec moi aussi_."

"What does that mean?" Samson asked.

"_And with me as well." _The beauty averted her gaze for a moment, her cheeks rosy, then they returned, looking apologetic,_ "_I promised I would go with her."

Samson and Zoe reached out for their drinks at the same time, although Samson's only had a measly few drops, mostly because Zoe had already drunk it.

"You pulling my leg?" he said cautiously, "Is this some sort of joke?"

He searched her expression for a sign of trickery, though Zoe merely placed some hair behind her ears, like prepping to present herself to the Divine. "No, Samson. I wanted to tell you in person, so you don't misunderstand. I applied to transfer too, but on probation. Six months, if I get in. I want to support Phillipa, sister and sister. It all depends how she adjusts. Orsino thought it was a good idea. I might come back… but I might not."

It hadn't been confirmed yet, but they both knew transfers were not that difficult to get. Zoe and Phillipa had decent reputations. Even if Phillipa was now on Zoe's level because of the Maddox business, it was enough. Bailey, his roommate before Cullen, had messed up a number of times, and he still managed to transfer. There were ways of making it happen.

It was indisputable. The Templar he cherished most had met with him today to say her farewell.

"_Zoe_…" his voice was strained. Samson might have said he didn't want Zoe to care or worry for him, but leaving was an entirely different matter. It felt destructive and wrong. "You wouldn't fit in there! You're Kirkwall born and bred. What about your family?"

"My family loves me," Zoe said, no doubt in her voice, "They think it's great I can travel. I'm not rolling in money. I've never had this chance, especially with errs Darkspawn afoot. They're happy I'm looking out for Phillipa."

"W-What about Maddox?" Samson blurted out.

"He wouldn't bat an eyelid," Zoe replied, "Don't you get that's why we have to leave?"

"Yeah, Phillipa can leave," he said dismissively, "but the Gallows needs you! It needs to have some rational people in there."

Part of him wanted to ask, _what about me?_ But he couldn't. He didn't dare.

"Maker's tits, Samson, it's not like I'm the bread and butter of the place." Zoe seemed partially amused. "It's hard for me to be there too." She hesitated, and maturity crossed her features. "I need to get away as well."

"What was keeping you there before?" he demanded, "You're not Phillipa."

"I'm running _with_ Phillipa because the Gallows isn't the same anymore," Zoe said, "Not for me, not our friends." As her voice strained no tears betrayed her. "My dear sister has no light in her eyes. It was like Meredith made her tranquil too. You _know_ what I'm talking about."

Samson didn't answer. The memory of Phillipa had reminded him of his sickened self, which he knew wasn't good. The content of Phillipa's mind and struggle mirrored his own. Perhaps Zoe understood it too. They were all scavenging for meaning in the aftermath of an explosion. Neither of them had uncovered it yet.

He didn't like all this change, not knowing where it was going. How many friends would be left once they'd rebuilt their lives? Somehow, he knew a Gallows without Phillipa and Zoe would be so much easier to despise. That was terrifying.

"Don't you miss Cullen?" Zoe said.

It was like she was reminding him there was still one person left. But that wasn't true. The Knight Captain wasn't there for him.

Samson crossed his arms. "That depends." He recalled what Chandler said. "Should I miss someone who doesn't respect me?"

"What are you talking about?" Zoe asked, "He respects you, the same as before. Cullen worries about you all the time."

"He's lying," Samson said, "You don't know him, Zoe."

The poor girl was ignorant to Cullen's rigid ways. She wasn't there when Cullen had expressed how _unsound_ Samson's idea of passing letters was. She hadn't heard Cullen yell at Samson to hurry up and talk to Meredith, hadn't seen his many expressions of disapproval throughout the entire letter passing ordeal, or seen how Cullen interrogated him about his begging for money. Zoe only saw the well-mannered Cullen that everyone else in Kirkwall associated him with. But he knew. Cullen got that irritated look on his face that meant he was too polite to criticize, but inside he was as critical as it was possible to be. He _knew_ the Knight Captain, and he had strict rules, like Meredith did. Like Knight Commander Bitchface, he kept it inside, and it made him cold.

Cullen had probably told Zoe about how Samson had been begging. The thought that his friends were all pretending to be nice and being like Cullen penetrated fear to the marrow of his bones. And within that marrow he couldn't answer one question: _Why is she being nice to me? _

"It's all an act."

"Where did you get that from?" Zoe countered.

"Don't play stupid. You know how he looks when he's judging somebody. Cullen doesn't say if he doesn't like something, but he knows hate. He didn't like the letters, and he doesn't forgive." Samson felt himself getting worked up just by thinking about it. "You're ignorant if you can't see it. He hates me, just like he hates Phillipa!"

"Samson, you're so wrong about that."

They were all judging him, like Zoe was now calling him wrong. _They_ were wrong. They knew nothing. Cullen deserved a punch in the face. That day Chandler told Samson about Cullen, he shouldn't have gone home and let Lilley steal his keys. Samson should have gone to the Gallows and broken the Knight Captain's too perfect a nose.

"He'll be happy when she's gone, just you wait, like he doesn't care I'm gone." Samson was shouting now. "I'll make him pay!"

A loud sound filled the air as pain collided with the side of his face. It stung as raw wounds did, piercing down to his veins and breaking them. With it, the tables closest to them went silent. His ears ceased to work and all he could do was stare into the smoky eyes of Zoe, silver light sizzling off of her clothes. She had used a Templar spell without meaning to, her hand outstretched. Samson's silly girl had slapped him, and the music from the bard sounded foreboding in his ears.

As quickly as it had happened the hostility vanished. Zoe's regret was immediate, the look that said, '_oh crap, did I just do that?_' and she straightened out her dress, though Samson had already forgiven her - he couldn't not forgive his darling Zoe, not after she'd taken the time out of her day to be here.

"You're right about what you said last time we talked," Zoe said slowly, "The Samson I knew is not you now, but I still want to know about him, even if he's a mess."

Samson took a deep breath and touched the table, as though trying to remind himself he was still in a tavern. The rage had been very real, and it still pounded in his chest, but Zoe somehow managed to look brilliant even as she was striking him. He wasn't delusional. Zoe was wrong, but he didn't want to upset her.

"Could you do that for me?" she said with finality, "Will you still write? Phillipa will want to know how you're going too."

Samson brought his cold glass to his face, cooling it. "Are you sure that's a good idea - since I told you to keep your distance?"

"I'm sure," Zoe said, placing her hands to the table, like she was filing a report. They listened to the music for a while, tapping their boots to the music. "I keep forgetting to ask. Is Faith nice? When you wrote she worked at the Rose… let's say my mind went in a million directions like fireworks."

Samson considered how to answer. It was normal to be curious, but how concerned was Zoe? He'd fucked Faith in more ways than he had Zoe, and he had learned more, experienced a wider spectrum of emotion, for better or worse. He wasn't sure what kind of friend he'd tell this information to, so Samson settled on the basics, keeping to the point of the question. "She can be very nice… and faultlessly horrid."

Zoe chuckled, "Of the dirty kind?"

"No," Samson lied impulsively, as easily as if he'd been honest, "just a ruthless nasty."

He couldn't hurt his friend.

"That's bizarre," Zoe admitted blankly. "She must not like you then. Or you're stupid."

He smiled, feeling somewhat peaceful that his roundabout explanation made some sense. "She both does and doesn't like me."

The beauty hummed to herself and rested her chin on interlaced fingers, examining him curiously, "Do you also… like and not like her then?"

"You're nicer," Samson said blankly, repeating her usage of the description from earlier.

Zoe seemed content with this answer. "My mind slipped the other day," she mumbled, as though the alcohol was talking. "I missed you a tiny bit. _Nostalgic_ is more accurate."

"I hope you remember what I told you about that," Samson pointed out, testing her.

"You don't think I do?" Zoe sat back up straight, with an allure smile.

Samson cleared his throat and held out his hand. "Best of luck at Orlais' Circle, sister," he said formally. "They will be honoured to have you. I'll write for as long as you want me to. I'm sorry that all this had to happen, and I am such a pest of an insect."

Strangely, the beauty didn't look confused. She gladly shook his hand. "Much obliged, brother," she let go, quickly, "Just don't be so quick to jump to conclusions again about Cullen and I forgive you. Really, I can't wait to try the Orlesian wine."

"I bet you can't."

It seemed neither of them wanted to talk about how Zoe struck him. It was too sensitive a topic.

They stood from their seats. Samson felt slightly more confident that Chandler had been wrong. Zoe didn't have any affectionate feelings for him. She was just a silly girl with the jitters.

"You don't have the guts to hurt me?" she joked with a marvellous grin.

"I do," Samson said calmly. Raising one of his fingers, he traced patterns in the air, pretending it was a bee, "Bzzz, bzzzz, bzzzzzzzzz…." He tapped her on the nose and pulled his hand away. "That'll be agony enough."

Her eyes twinkled as though she wanted to joke, but instead she just surveyed his finger and touched her nose, as though suspecting it might actually break out in a rash or hives. She raised one of her arms.

"Can you twirl me?" she asked, "I've always wanted to do that in a tavern, but I've never had much reason to before now."

Samson hesitated. The bard was playing a jolly tune indeed, and there were few who were dancing. He tensed his jaw. Zoe couldn't get too friendly. It was dangerous. He couldn't be with her, but she was also leaving. It would also be foolish to refuse outright.

"How do you ask?" Samson said with a grumble.

"Sorry for slapping you?" she suggested.

"That'll do."

In truth, he didn't know what the magic words were, Samson didn't want to give away his affection for nothing, didn't want to feed into her childish thoughts. He held out his hand and let Zoe twirl underneath him. Once… and a half… and let go. For those few seconds he almost felt like any other Kirkwall bloke in a tavern, living a normal life, a simple life… something he would never have. Not like this. The sunlight rarely reached his spirit, stopping before it hit his skin.

Zoe had a stupid grin on her face - suitable for such a pretty, childish girl. "Worth it."

He started heading toward the exit, while she trailed behind. Samson felt too sick to his stomach to answer for a couple of steps. "You're not coming back, then?"

He looked back as she reached him.

"I will for occasional family reunions and the like," she reiterated, "As for Orlais, I can't decide if it's for the better… but if it isn't, I'll come back."

Neither said goodbye. Perhaps they didn't want it to be goodbye, just a _'I'll be back, stupid_.', but he couldn't read her face.

All speech failed him like it did those days in the Gallows. However, it wasn't precisely like usual. The feeling was softer, not wanting her body or kisses, but the brightness and sturdiness of her spirit.

To couples in the tavern it was the perfect moment for mournful embraces, but they were not lovers. He watched her leave with an undeniable melancholy.

They were not friends. Brother and sister was stretching it too. They were not really anything. Zoe was a ghost, a harbourer of good memories. She kept them all tightly hidden behind her smile, and kept them in a locked attic, never to be touched.

Samson still wanted to be her friend, but he wasn't sure he could. He'd try. He'd try forever, and she'd be out of reach for longer than that, a gorgeous butterfly that knew exactly the right moment to present her wings and disappear. Although each time she fluttered away the distance was further. At first, across rooms, then across corridors, separated by the harbour and now she'd be out of the city entirely, in another region. Not a Marcher, but mingling with Orlesian types.

Zoe haunted him, if not in person, then in his thoughts. Whenever she appeared, the ocean tossed him underwater and stung his eyes, and Samson knew how to float but not swim. It wasn't enough to survive.

Words should have been said. Samson could have mentioned how he admired Zoe's ability to smile despite everything, complimented her on the dress, offered to walk her back to the Docks, that he didn't want to ever say goodbye, that Kirkwall was a duller place without her, and the man wished Meredith had let him stay so he had an idea of what would have become of them.

When he'd made her cry, he wanted to hold her until every last tear disappeared. How he would have kissed her if they were still in the Circle, fellow Templars… if she wanted that sort of thing. He had no idea. The boundaries were being recklessly danced over. The thought was familiar though he couldn't place it.

Samson should have said something. He could have said anything at all with a hint at his tenderness for her. Anything.

But the former Templar said nothing. He forbid himself to, even as his heart imploded under the weight of all those feelings he hardly knew he had. She walked out of The Hanged Man entrance, fixated on her destination. Zoe would always go forward and pay no mind to the past.

She was gone.

Under the heaviness something cracked. Something broke. And with it came a scream. Not an audible cry, but one he knew well, more tormented than ever before.

Within his mind the demon's name never formed, although it heaved at his gut and his eyes and his throat and his heart. It twisted his body as if it changing him into every remaining patron in the tavern, one after the other. The monster tried to shove him into a small space, while simultaneously spreading him over the floor boards, shredding him like those tatters of the dead leaves on the floor. Time and space distorted, dripping on him like the wax from the candles, burning his skin. Gravity and the very essence of the world pulled him underground, where the crystals stirred. He didn't know what awoke the beast, too enraptured by the claws of possession.

Samson went home immediately. Faith was there. He could ask for help. She'd help him.

* * *

He used those keys she gave him, stepped into the provenance that she offered, and found Faith laying on the bed. She gave a small wave with a tired hand, still recovering from the blood magic hex. "How did it go?"

"You have no reason to be jealous, princess," Samson said slowly, "Zoe and Phillipa are going to The White Spire."

Faith looked absent though bewildered. "Orlais?"

"Orlais," Samson affirmed.

"That's a distance," she said.

Samson leaned forward and held onto Faith's hand to stop his arm shaking.

"Samson?" she said abruptly, placing her full attention on him.

"Faith…" Samson mockingly replied.

Slowly, she caressed his arm. "You look like you want something."

"I do." Samson's grin was animalistic and raw. "You have it in your cabinet."

"Hmm…" Faith appeared to be thinking about it, quite seriously, for a few moments. A small smile formed on her lips, a kind and lascivious one. Then she moved Samson's hand up the inside of her thigh. "And how desperately do you want it?"

"More than ever," Samson said, his mind still racing with _lyrium, lyrium, lyrium_.

"I respect your choice to limit your intake," Faith said slowly, "so I have a challenge for you."

"You dare give me a riddle and I'll-"

"Give me yourself," she repeated the words she'd used while in the lyrium's song, although now they sounded flatter, "your seed, your everything. And if you still want the blue afterward, you will be justly rewarded."

Samson wanted to say no, tell her to piss off, that he'd take the lyrium anyway. He should just go over and drink it, just swallow all of it, but Faith knew the glare of an addict. She took his hand and shoved his fingers as far down her throat as she could manage… which was way too far down to be normal.

The man shuddered, but still resisted.

"Why don't you just let me have some?" Samson tested, "I paid for a portion of the next batch, you know!"

He had to wait until the woman removed his drenched fingers until she answered. "Yes, the next batch."

"You know what I'm feeling right now!" Samson yelled, wiping his hand on his shirt, "Yet you do this! Let me take it! Please!"

He was getting good at begging. It was a skill as much as anything else, but the woman did not yield. She ran her fingers down his face and shook her head.

"You wench!" he shouted, his speech accelerated, "and you dare do this when you're sick! You've got more than a few screws loose. Let me take it. It's just lyrium. It's just a drink. It's just medicine. I need it. You know I need it."

"Samson…" she said firmly, "Remember you agreed to this plan."

Fuck. He did. He _had_, but now he wanted to go back on the plan. When he'd made the plan, he hadn't had a clue what this felt like. It was all stupid! Samson groaned, and not only that, his throat burned with anguish. He took a deep breath and remembered the times he wanted to screw her. He needed something strong – had to disconnect from the first time they'd given their bodies completely to each other.

"You don't need to bribe me to make me take you," Samson said finally, "Besides; I don't want you passing out on me."

"I do," Faith said calmly, "That way your rage can be turned into more. There's a reason anger is easily mistaken for lust – because they thrive off each other. I will give you plenty of warning if I am about to collapse. Lyrium won't skew that like last time."

Samson took a number of deep breaths. His mind was still racing, his body was still malfunctioning. He brought his hand up her thigh again and pressed his fingers to her nub. "Will you be willing to wear a dress?"

Faith appeared to revert back to how she was on their first meeting – just a whore doing her job. "Which one?"

Samson touched her anywhere he could reach as Faith got to her feet like someone who had been awoken earlier than they wanted. "The most ordinary one you can find."

He had to move, distract himself, the drug was still calling him, viciously threatening him.

Faith followed his command without a single objection. Samson had trouble watching her take off her clothes. His eyes kept darting to the cabinet on the other side of the room, begging to be free, needing lyrium to save him. He didn't even look over at Faith until she climbed onto the bed with him and touched his face.

"Is this average enough?" she murmured, her words like embers spitting at him.

Samson felt his body burst with want as he looked upon her. She had picked out that one. The dress _Lilley_ liked. The one Faith wore in the Chantry, the one with gold and white and green. The one he suspected they fucked in, the dress _he_ would now fuck her in, but put Lilley's performance to shame. The fabric was layered and silky, clearly an Antivan influence. With age patches of it had turned translucent, like at her stomach across her shoulders. It was taught around the elbows and hips, but was otherwise quite loose. Strange. She wasn't that scrawny.

He didn't care about asking why she had chosen it.

"You almost look like a good person in it," he joked, "but I still want lyrium more."

"Prove it," she challenged, a spark of her dominance sparkling through like lightning, "Channel your anger into me. Turn it into power. I'll tell you if or when I've had enough."

"That's never, then."

He grasped her face in his hands and brought his lips to hers. He felt her grin as she kissed him back.

Still, as Samson let his passion for Faith become indistinguishable from rage, and as she enjoyed it far too much, the want for poison persisted.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ The title of this chapter was named after the song 'Those Were the Days' by Mary Hopkin. I am so pleased to have reached this part of the story. I hope you enjoyed reading it.

Next chapter will mark the end of Act 2 and is from Zoe's POV. :-D

Beta credit - Flaminea.


	27. Interlude - Let Me Lead You to Solitude

Zoe thought about likelihoods more than the past. At first they were playful thoughts, until the two collided and splintered like branches under too much weight.

All the quarters in the Gallows were unwelcoming and dreary like the cemetery outside Kirkwall. They were rectangular, like the beds, thick with many covers against the left and right walls. Here, the desks sat in opposite sides and the large window was positioned to the sun. As she entered Cullen's quarters, she envisioned Samson and hers erstwhile encounter of sweaty desperation the night prior to his dismissal. Instead of light, she recalled the sheet of darkness. Where she saw wall, she imagined the single barred window that Phillipa and her room shared. A frosty chill still crept from underneath the curtain.

The night Zoe allowed Samson into her quarters, the lit candle on the bedside table was in close need of replacing, a mere stump and dying warmth. Ignorant or deliberately careless, she neglected to realize that Phillipa's happiness would dissipate with that flicker.

Knowing her sister was facing some undeniable peril floors below changed nothing.

_Was letting Samson into my room tactless_? Zoe contemplated. Maybe. It was definitely impulsive, but it held importance in her mind anyway, lingering like the sacred texts of the Chantry did.

* * *

_As Samson removed each heavy piece of his armour and Zoe lowered them onto the stone floor, the metal __clang__ still echoed no matter how softly she placed them. Half of him obscured by that pathetic candle, she observed his form in the faint orange glow. Her lungs expanded more fully with each stretch of flesh that was exposed. How long it had been since she'd gazed upon a man's body. Every detail intrigued her, the muscly arms, toned shoulders, how one of his collar bones looked like it was a different size to the other. He removed all but his smalls, and Zoe felt the timepiece of her body had halted to accommodate this man._

_She must look like half a shadow too. Did he find her as beautiful shrouded in darkness? Thoughts about whether either of them would be apt in pleasing each other crossed her mind, mysteries to which there would be no answer. They vanished, forgotten in the tension and flurry of urgency. _

_"You're not talking much," Samson observed._

_"My brain is," she admitted, "A lot."_

_"Yeah," Samson sounded like he'd dreaded this answer, "Not having second thoughts, beautiful?"_

_"__Zoe__," she reiterated, despite being accustomed to his flattery, "I'm debating the answer to your question."_

_What sin to engage in first… it was an impossible conundrum when the choices were so vast but time so little._

_"It's a tough one, isn't it?" Samson admitted, "You're a confident lady. How about you choose?"_

_Swallowing her hesitance, Zoe picked at the only instance she was certain of, "Can we do everything?"_

_"Thedas doesn't throw about all its gifts for one to claim." Samson said, "But maybe I will."_

_Zoe hardly knew what the comment meant. She didn't know whether it was eerie or obtuse, but it made her breath abate._

It hurt to look at Cullen's quarters now. It wasn't deviant in design to hers and Phillipa's. She glanced at the neatly made, unused bed, and the abandoned second desk on side. That bed was never going to have a person in it unless the Knight Captain abandoned solitary confinement. It seemed unlikely since Cullen had chosen to be alone so his sleeping habits wouldn't bother anybody.

With an absence of emotion and homeliness, more than the physical presence of Samson was missing. This room was no longer a place of socializing. The door did not invite visitors in, but barricaded them out instead. Whether Cullen intended it or not his friends were marked as intruders.

Zoe clenched a fist, where she'd held a transfer request form moments ago. Instead of the tactile sensation of the unfolded parchment, she felt folded letter -_his_ letter- too brief a sensation to understand.

Seated at the desk Cullen looked over the drafts of transfer request forms. Zoe pulled her gaze back to him. "How are they?"

She hadn't been worried about the top part all contact information and details of the White Spire's location, but the sections listed 'Please detail reasons for transference request and why these goals are not achievable in current residence' and even 'Please provide any additional accommodation requirements you may have' left her diffident.

Phillipa leaned over Cullen's desk to read the page. "I apologize for my handwriting. I scribbled words away so often."

"There is nothing wrong with your writing, Phillipa," Cullen assured her, "It is an awkward form to write, since the very person who has contributed to the current situation is the same individual who has to sign it." He sighed. "It was relatively easy for me to get my transfer in Kinloch Hold, as I wasn't the only one who did. The Knight Commander told me he had about ten to look over… Anyway, Greagoir had no problem at all writing about my concentration problems and how the Blight had caused an 'emotional disturbance' but that's the Blight. There is an expectation that not every Templar will come out the other end unscathed. We can hardly say 'The Knight Commander has caused a disturbance', neither can we say what –_how-_ the situation came about."

He phrased the last section delicately, as Phillipa was lachrymose to any notion that she was a failure or misbehaving Templar.

"What shall we write instead?" Phillipa questioned.

"If it was Orsino who had to sign we could put that Meredith's reign of bitchery reached a momentary peak," Zoe pointed out, happy to be talking, "and I found some great parts of the Chant to back up our argument if we needed to."

Her roommate was the one who had found those Chant excerpts, but Zoe had no problem taking credit for her work.

Phillipa gave a small, but strained smile. She didn't want to talk about the ordeal, so that made it an unspoken acquiesce. "Yes, Orsino is far more agreeable to converse with."

As before, Phillipa struggled to say anything negative about Meredith, despite disagreeing with her ways. The high level of respect for her superiors remained. Zoe suspected Phillipa had been bullied into submission, and if that was the case it was only more reason to depart the Gallows. Working for the monster who was mistreating her sister Templar was unacceptable.

Cullen swivelled his quill around aimlessly in his right hand. "We need to pretend for a moment that none of the… _ordeal_ happened and write it from that perspective."

"But…" Zoe stopped herself from speaking. 'Like nothing had happened' was difficult to conceptualize. _If Phillipa and Maddox were like usual, and if Samson was here, why would I want to go to Orlais?_

She frowned. All she could think of was 'for a holiday'. Leaving her friends and family behind was upsetting.

Phillipa chimed in, "I think it would be a wonderful opportunity to experience Orlais's diverse culture, and I can further compare that to Ferelden." She looked hopeful. "I can learn another language and discover the stylistic differences in the history and literature."

Phillipa possessed a brilliant ability to imagine herself in the circumstances of others. Zoe didn't see the point half the time. Her life was already great so there was no benefit of imagining someone who was unhappy and making herself depressed.

But it had its uses, like now.

"Yeah, that's really good," Zoe said, forgetting her temporary lapse in thinking.

Perhaps working as a Templar drained her empathy and made her so self-conceited. Or maybe she was just plain snobbish and immodest by nature.

Zoe couldn't remove her frown. Maker praise the world, she hoped she was only a little bit vain, and not 'most days' like Phillipa said recently.

"Good thinking, Phillipa," Cullen quickly scribbled on their draft. He showed Zoe the page, "What do you think?"

Zoe looked over it. The phrase she'd written of 'to repair sadness wreckage' was replaced with 'to refocus and promote emotional and mental state to nurture continued learning practice'. "Thank you, Cullen. I think that's perfect."

Phillipa switched places with Cullen on the desk to write.

* * *

Zoe felt out of place walking into Knight Commander Meredith's office. She'd been there to organize charges in the past, but this was the first time she was entering for something serious. It wouldn't have bothered her if Phillipa hadn't expressed second thoughts before entering. Phillipa never got like that around anyone, much less Meredith. It was unusual.

Realizing Phillipa wasn't going to say anything, Zoe took the floor. "Good afternoon, Knight Commander," she said, removing any caution from her voice, "We finished the transferal forms you asked for."

She placed them down on the desk. As unresisting as the action was, the cordiality was not returned. The look of distaste on Knight Commander Meredith's face would be burned into Zoe's mind forever. It was unnerving and unfamiliar.

Their superior read through the pages quickly, signed them and said: "There. It is done. It will be a loss to the Gallows to have such efficient and intelligent Templars depart."

The silence seemed to ring of something louder than what had been verbalized in the room thus far.

_Thank you for noticing how intelligent I am._ Zoe thought. She reluctantly added, _Phillipa is quicker thinking than I am though. _

It was discomforting that Meredith didn't even question their decision, but the look in her eyes suggested she was hiding something.

"Thank you, Meredith," Zoe said, glancing at Phillipa to say something, but didn't for a few seconds.

"I appreciate your moral guidance, Knight Commander," Phillipa said.

_Why the heck had she said that?_

Zoe was shocked that Phillipa _sounded_ serious, but she… looked downtrodden. Meredith hadn't provided any moral anything. She told people what to do but it wasn't inspiring.

"I will inform you of when the response arrives from Val Royeaux," Meredith said, "In the meanwhile you will continue your duties as usual and I shall delegate your charges to other Templars. However, if you can procure a list of those who may be willing to take them, it would smooth and quicken the process."

"Yes, Knight Commander," Phillipa said immediately.

Zoe didn't know what to think on this, but it wouldn't hurt to get out of here as quick as possible. "We can ask around at dinner later."

"It is much appreciated," Meredith said. She pushed the papers back toward them, and Phillipa rushed to grab them before Zoe could. "Is there anything else?"

"No, Knight Commander, not unless you would like extra assistance," Phillipa said. Her obsequiousness and constant submission to Meredith was alarming and unnatural.

"There is nothing else," Meredith said, "You may leave. Although…"

Zoe was about to turn around but stopped herself.

"I did not expect your flair for resilience would fail so promptly, Ser Phillipa," Meredith explained, "It is a shame indeed that you find yourself incapable of reclaiming your pliancy."

_WHAT?!_ Zoe wanted to shout at the Knight Commander. It was like she was saying Phillipa was… she wasn't sure. It just didn't ring quite right.

She glanced at Phillipa to gage reaction and thought there was a flash of rage in the Templars eyes, before she resumed looking demoralized.

Her dear sister didn't say a word.

Zoe stepped forward. "Actually, I think that travelling to unfamiliar regions and adapting to new circumstances is a great display of resilience."

Meredith gave a small smile. Perhaps she was impressed with the answer… or was only passive aggressive.

Zoe, who considered herself the best person in the universe at being passive aggressive, would not back down. For once, she was proud for being a snob. The lyrium boiled inside, threatening to strike.

"It is impressive, yes," Meredith agreed, "But I consider it unnecessary. Pain does not linger in our souls forever, if one can attune themselves on what they can learn. Perhaps if the two of you allowed more time here I have confidence you would rise above this obstacle."

Zoe checked on Phillipa again, but she was focusing on Meredith's desk absently.

The brunette was not impressed. If it was all about learning, then sometimes the lesson wasn't very nice. Even if Phillipa could move past the Maddox business, maybe she might still want to travel to Orlais. Meredith had no means to know that. Not to mention Phillipa was not functioning on any level.

"Phillipa has learned her lesson," Zoe said, "but she still wants to explore the world."

"I suppose that justifies your speaking for her, Ser Zoe?" Meredith tested. She peered at Phillipa, embittered, but the blonde was still not making eye contact. "The White Spire is hardly a superior Circle. The culture of Orlais is orientated around lies and secrecy. Any mistakes will be jeered at. Shall there be any lapses in your transition there, you will likely be returned to the Gallows." She moved the ink pot on her desk. "Consider yourselves fortunate that if you fail to adjust in such a way that I will welcome you back here."

Zoe felt very angry. She didn't think she'd been this angry since… a fortnight ago. Before she could debate with herself why, she blurted out, "If Orlais is so perfect and suitable for liars, why didn't you throw Samson in with them?"

"That is not relevant to this conversation," Meredith said, "But I made the choice because he had not proven himself to be adequate, and all his wrongdoings only confirmed what I already knew to be true."

"Like what?" Zoe had to fight with herself not to yell. "What did he do? He's so socially awkward I doubt someone so high in the authority hierarchy like you paid any attention."

"Sister," Phillipa hissed.

Zoe didn't have time to look over and see what her roommate was worried about.

"I think that is enough bickering for one afternoon." Meredith said. "Please leave me to work." They were about to when she looked right at Zoe. "Samson would be pleased to know he did not entirely escape your pitifully fugacious attention span."

Zoe wasn't sure what part of that sentence wanted to make her lash out at Meredith more. How did the Knight Commander know about anything to do with Samson and her? Did the rumours of what had happened the night Maddox was made Tranquil spread that far? Or perhaps it was other tales, needless gossip, rumours that held no truth.

"Please excuse my sister, Knight Commander," Phillipa interrupted, finally saying something, "She's only upset because one of her charges kept trying to glue her hands behind her."

Even if she did have a charge who liked doing that, Zoe withheld from saying that's not why she was angry.

"Thank you for signing the forms, Knight Commander." Zoe finished, taking a deep breath. She repeated a prayer to herself as she left and the anger settled.

* * *

Phillipa decided she didn't want to eat dinner with everybody else, so after making the list for Meredith they took a boat across to the Docks. Zoe decided to row the oars to help take her mind off what Meredith had said.

_She has major issues,_ she rationalized. _I hope Samson punched her before he left._

What distracted her from the boat was not her own swirling emotions, but Phillipa seated opposite her. Her breathing became disjointed and she was wiping her eyes too often for it to simply be from the water splashing in them. She was crying again.

"Sister," Zoe said, slowing down her rowing, "What's the matter?"

Phillipa shook her head, barely visible by the lantern, "Meredith is right about me, Zoe. I'm so weak and hopeless." She looked as though she was trying to form more words but they simply would not come out.

"No, you're not weak," Zoe said, as the boat glided against the waves, "You're sad. There's a big difference."

"I shouldn't be sad. I should be able to cope," Phillipa choked out, "And this is my fault. The Maker is punishing me. I know I did wrong. I shouldn't have talked to Maddox at all. I'm a terrible Templar." Her breathing was almost a wheeze. "I shouldn't have given into temptation but I did."

Zoe wasn't sure what to say. She didn't know much about what had happened with Maddox. Phillipa never talked about it, and Zoe knew better than to push the issue. Was her roommate talking about the letters or the fact they'd done naughty things?

Even after thinking about it, she had no further insights. Yes, talking to mages and getting into relationships with them wasn't right, but Phillipa wasn't the type of person to do that on a whim. There must have been something about Maddox that made him different to other mages, for Phillipa usually managed these problems very efficiently.

"You did your best, sister," Zoe settled on finally, "I know how you were mixed up about it for ages. It…" she hesitated, reverting back to the phrase she'd used on that hectic night. "It isn't only your fault it happened."

It was like she hadn't said anything.

"I don't deserve to go to the White Spire," Phillipa continued to sob, "I was unable to keep to my duty. I should have been dismissed as well. I don't know why_ I_ was spared. Samson was so kind to me, and it's not like he was sneaking around to meet any mage."

"He kind of was," Zoe pointed out, remembering the letters. Too engrossed in the conversation, she jumped to stop the oars from slipping out of her hands.

"But not… in the same way M-M-Maddox and I were," Phillipa said, "And… and I do not understand the Knight Commander, Zoe. She made it sound like she simply didn't _like_ Samson and wanted an excuse to get rid of him. She said something similar when… with Maddox… when…" Phillipa wiped her eyes again and caught her breath, "she called him an _invalid_, sister. Like nobody is worthy of being in the Gallows unless they precisely fit her expectation of what Templars and mages should behave like."

Zoe felt a lump appear in her throat. Everyone knew Meredith was high maintenance, but not to that extent. "I think my theory still stands," she said, "The Knight Commander must have a thing for Orsino but can't handle it so she takes it out on everybody else."

"Or she despises men," Phillipa remarked. She stretched out her neck so she could breathe more freely, "Maybe I would get better if I stayed here in the Gallows."

"No, sister." Zoe said, "There's nothing wrong with wanting to leave. It's your decision, not Meredith's. It's not like people fill out those forms for no reason, and she did sign it." She felt suddenly angry again. Meredith had signed the papers but lectured them for a long while afterward, and for what? "And she was completely wrong. I don't have a 'pitifully fugacious attention span'!"

Phillipa wiped her eyes again. Clearly that part of the conversation wasn't what bothered her. "Sister, you can be intermittent sometimes."

"Yeah, because lots of things are interesting to me," Zoe shot back. "That's good for me… and what was the point of- I don't get what she was even trying to say to us."

Phillipa took the oars off of Zoe and turned the boat around so she could take the place of rowing. "I think she's angry at me. I was meant to be Knight Captain but… and now I'm leaving."

Then why did she drag Samson into the conversation? Really, Meredith was becoming weirder every time they interacted with her.

"I don't know," Zoe said.

There was no point trying to speculate anymore.

They listened to the sounds of the ocean for a few moments.

"Sister…" Phillipa said, gazing sideways. The tears were quite tame now, coming out soundlessly.

"What is it?"

Her voice was soft. Zoe could never be mad at her sister for being upset. She felt protective of her. They would be sisters until the end.

"I think I know why I could never… completely turn Maddox away," she said, slowly, "I've been thinking a lot about it."

"Really?" Zoe couldn't figure out if she was more surprised Phillipa was actually opening up about this or something else.

The blonde gathered her thoughts. "Orsino told me he doesn't get surprised about relationships occurring in the Circle because it is impossible to avoid and stay away from one person. It isn't like in the street. While I agree with that and think it played a part, there was another influence which is what made Maddox different from the other mages. I can't remember if I've told you this before, but I used to get so jealous of you."

Zoe wasn't sure if she'd heard this before, or even why anything about her had relevance to Maddox. She didn't reminisce on the past much. "Why?"

Phillipa looked earnestly at Zoe. "You receive so much attention from those around us. Like when we were going through training."

Zoe grinned. "Are you talking about all the boys in our group who suddenly wanted to be my friend once I started to get boobs?"

Phillipa smiled meekly and nodded. "Yes. It sounds silly, doesn't it?"

"No. It's because boys are stupid," Zoe said. There was no doubt about this fact. "I told you at the time and it's still true now."

"I guess I felt left out. That was the first time anything to do with the Circle made me feel like that," Phillipa said, "I remember you always used to tell them to go away once I started getting deserted but I saw the smile on your face. You liked the attention."

"Who doesn't like attention?" Zoe said, unable to discern why that was a bad thing.

Phillipa gave a rueful smile. "I don't like it too much. I would have hated it if I was in your position. It would be too overwhelming to have all these eyes on me, but… I think I got used to being pushed aside. You were the beautiful one and I was just… that other one."

"The other pretty and clever one," Zoe corrected. Her roommate was so hard on herself.

For some reason this made Phillipa upset. Nearly everything set her off these days. "Oh Maker, _curses_, take these back!"

She gave Zoe the oars and they swapped places again. The Docks weren't too far, but Zoe decided to row them in a circle instead of toward the edge.

Phillipa recovered from her sobbing. "I hate it so much that this happened, because _I'm_ the one who took a chastity vow. I want to have a future outside of the Circle one day, but I feel loyal to the Maker in the meanwhile. That is fine in theory… But I never met anyone I felt for in that manner. No one ever just _comes up to me_ like they do to you. I started to worry maybe I was being too idealistic and there's no way anyone would ever see my good qualities, that I'd die alone. I think the First Enchanter understands to a degree. We don't meet anyone new in the Circle. After a while you know everyone… that's in limits." The last part was said begrudgingly.

"To be fair," Zoe said, "It's kind of a rip off that those boys did only start flocking toward me when I started to look… well..."

"You _are_ beautiful, sister," Phillipa said, "And I know that I am not pretty in the same way you are pretty. I'd like to think that's not very important." She looked down to hide her face. "_Maddox_ approached me, the first boy ever to do that and not say something terrible. Meredith… they say he started it, but it wasn't like that. It wasn't ill intended. He heard about how nice I was and he was interested in my unwavering faith to the Maker, because he didn't like the Circle at all."

Zoe nodded, listening carefully.

Phillipa shook a little. "He was intrigued by who I was as a person." She lamented, "But maybe I _was_ being too idealistic. The Gallows is a rather isolating and lonely place. I never noticed how much until then. I think that's why I didn't want to stop the letters even if it was against the rules. I wanted to know I had appeal in the context of a relationship. It was so hard to believe that I did just by principle of the Maker's good will, when I looked at you and all the attention you received. You don't have to do anything. You don't have to try. It just happens by itself. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before. I thought myself a fool to reject it, especially if it was what the Maker wished of me." Her voice calmed, "but now that I've learned this about myself I don't think I'll get in trouble with a mage ever again."

Zoe considered that the fact Phillipa had taken a chastity vow probably had narrowed her choices a great deal, at least until later in life, but it wasn't appropriate to mention that.

"I'd rather have some boy send me a letter than stare at my chest any day," Zoe said with a smile, "Hey, let's trade. You can have all the depraved ones and I can have some sweetheart who wants to adore me for all the useful ideas I have in my head."

"Oh no." Phillipa managed a small laugh, obviously thinking that was not something she wanted or would end well.

"We should have written that on our transfer form." Zoe ventured, struck with sudden inspiration. She pretended to write cursive in the air, "Reason for leaving? 'All the boys here are gormless. We want new ones. Try better next time, Kirkwall."

Phillipa chuckled. "Meredith wouldn't like that at all."

"She might agree," Zoe said, "Though maybe Orlais wouldn't take it very well. We should send her some prissy Orlesian man and see if it cheers her up."

Phillipa's laugh was louder for a moment, until it softened and turned into sobs. She hugged her knees and cried so much it was impossible to get another word out of her.

_Probably because I said all the boys here are stupid,_ Zoe realized.

When they returned back to the room, with a few bottles of wine at their disposal, Zoe started to reflect.

She knew the real reason she was leaving.

The Gallows felt empty, when it never had before. The other bed in Cullen's room was unoccupied. Phillipa's bed often _seemed_ uninhabited by her ghostly demeanour. Every day felt like two, and the hours had elongated as the week passed. Maybe this is what her sister meant when she said the Gallows was an isolating place, but it was not something Zoe had felt before. It was odder than any eccentricity that Samson had blurted out at the breakfast table. It was stranger than trying to falsify calm once she realized she forgot to bring clean undies to the shower.

"I wish we didn't have to give Meredith one of these stupid things," She said, wanting to smash the wine bottle.

"It is a courtesy, sister," Phillipa said.

"I suppose," Zoe said reluctantly. It was probably best to keep on the Knight Commander's good side on the off chance matters didn't go well or Zoe decided to go back after her six month probation. Plus, at least the booze was free. She took that commodity less for granted in her adulthood, once she had enough coin to appreciate how expensive alcohol really was.

"I can hand Meredith that list in the morning," Zoe said. She sighed as she started to get changed. "Get lots of sleep, Phillipa. Don't worry about it, and let me know when you want to eat breakfast. I'll ask Meredith, but we might be able to start a little later if she's going to be organizing everything."

"Thank you."

They didn't speak much that night. Zoe picked out her novel from the bedside table and stared at the cover. It was a stupid, uninspiring picture of a doe in a field of flowers. It was the same one she'd been trying to get through when Samson knocked on their door to warn Phillipa about Meredith. With so much lost, it felt wrong to enjoy such a simple pastime.

Before Meredith had come along to wreck everything, Phillipa was still herself, Cullen wasn't all serious and Samson would be a fool around her and pretend no one had seen. But everyone did. Zoe had witnessed every blunder. At the time of their occurrence, Zoe often went 'meh'. Now those memories hurt.

But there was one memory that didn't.

_The last piece of Samson's armour met the floor. She was still in underclothes, as he crawled toward her, watchful. The half of his jawline she could see was still, unwavering, His eyes were usually silver, but now they were black, unreadable. It was so terribly dark, but it didn't __feel__ that way._

_Zoe liked that he had managed to hold a conversation. It was one of the longest they had held so far without it getting weird. And this circumstance was unusual. Maybe Samson was not strange, like she'd usually decided, but an __unconventional__ type of man… _

_Whatever confidence Samson had was gently veiled. Jerome hadn't been like that. Her previous dalliance had taken the initiative. _

_This wouldn't be like when she lost her virginity. Hopefully._

_She moved nearer too, unsure of where to place her legs, finally deciding to sit on her ankles. The mysterious force guiding her was lost, tenebrous, like half of her appearance. This was only one part of her, a mere glimmer into herself and life, but she desired him to comprehend it._

'_I want…'_

_The thought ended as Zoe seized his shoulders._

'_I need to lose myself__,' she amended as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek._

'_Stay with me, with time, and make it stop,'__ she thought as he clasped his broad hands to her face and returned affection to her lips. How many times had he delved into reveries and dreams of her?_

_She recalled it with a mix of amusement and nostalgia. How they'd rubbed themselves against each other because it was too embarrassing to look like they were actually __attempting__ to do something specific in case mistakes were made. That Zoe didn't mind. That Samson didn't seem to, either. By some unwilling force of Andraste's she requested wordless favours by gently coaxing his fingers in the right places. He did the same, and was too awkward to form full sentences so merely gave clues. Now she remembered it, she realized she'd barely been comprehensible either, misplaced in heightened breath._

_"Can I?" she whispered._

_"Please." A straightforward reply, "And you?"_

_"By the Maker's glory please. You're…"_

_An eager sound reverberated from some hidden confide of her throat._

_"Thank you," He said, even if no compliment had been audibly given. _

'_What?'_

_Kisses and the moans of happy sinners was their own discourse, and minutes went by with only this and feeling. They slowly morphed from anxiety into confidence by the pressure of time. Many variations of fire needed to happen, fast._

_She doubted she was his first, for Samson was amazingly self-assured. She enjoyed the untactful laziness he kissed at her breasts and pressed his stiff manhood against her pelvis. "Want to?"_

_"Yeah," Zoe replied enthused, "but shhh!"_

_"You shush."_

_It was a tone of amusement._

_"We need to hurry," she hissed._

_"I am, sweetie."_

_Zoe giggled louder than they had been whispering. Hopefully she wasn't blushing when he helped remove her clothes at some ghostly haste, but it hardly mattered. She offered herself to him impersonally, face away and gaze elsewhere. The green-eyed beauty had a suspicion that this position would cause the least amount of noise, but it turned out the bed was a whinging git._

_"Zoe, shut it! I can't hear myself think," Samson said, as the bed frame knocked against the wall with a tapping sound, the pitiful best that could be managed._

_It was a joke, because Zoe had been trying to keep quiet. "Thinking of what?"_

_"What was that?" Samson wondered, still teasing her, "You want me to go harder?"_

_Zoe didn't know what to say, but the artless groan was plenty of reply._

_She remembered how he gripped onto her and the endearing sounds from his lips. The scent of his sweat, hers, and how they became peculiar when combined. That he didn't even bother to keep his mouth shut or resist how much he cherished her skin, maybe her soul. _

_She still wasn't sure about that._

_It felt like the clock had slowed and yet their hunger was frantic, trying to piece together remains of a shattered weapon that were never really going to fit. But they'd try. And it still felt good._

_"I really like how you sound." he whispered, and with no recoil he concluded, "Your voice is like a lullaby, even your inane little giggles."_

'_Odd,'__ Zoe admitted, but not unwelcome, perhaps thoughtful. Looking back on it, she appreciated the compliment. _

_That's when she became lost in him, not only in the heat that bound them together. In her mind she thought all manner of words that could have expressed how much she liked the amorous frenzy, but all she allowed herself were moans of vowels and slip-ups of affirmations. He was similar in his lullaby, though he, on occasion, said her name. She was surprised that she wasn't scared of it. _

_Could he discern that she was resisting surrender? _

_"Zoe, I'm about to…" he gasped for breath, "Will you slay me if I…"_

_The word he didn't want to use. A crime he was shamed to acknowledge. She could place a name to it. And for once she liked it better when he couldn't talk. With her hips Zoe protested against his hesitation and requested the confidence she'd rarely seen. _

_His closeness to the pinnacle should induce panic, a pressure to reject his release, but she didn't. "I don't care."_

_She writhed, even knowing full well she hadn't consumed anything to protect against potential consequences. There was only one goal in mind. Zoe grasped onto his legs and pulled him closer. Deeper. As her head pushed into the mattress, she relaxed completely and suppressed a groan at the sensation of being so close. She gripped onto the frame of the bed, pretending it was part of him she could comfort, like his back, neck or fingers. _

_"For me?" she asked, more to her knuckles. In a part of her mind softened by pleasure, she heard herself whisper - What are you talking about?_

_It was like Samson's response was interrupted – or perhaps answered- by his involuntary rapture. The man's nails temporarily dug into her thighs as his body expelled all it had been reserving for her. _

_She didn't care then either. The whisper was silenced. _

_"Ah, shit," He groaned, removing himself, "How… sorry – is there much time to…?"_

_"We have to keep going," Zoe informed him, like it was some sort of training drill. They'd marched up one summit, now they had to savour the descent before the next incline. Moving her legs awkwardly as though they were thawing from snow, she tried to regain sensation in them._

_"Yeah, we do," Samson agreed, exhausted. Light headed, he leaned forward and balanced his palms against her back to stop himself from falling off the bed._

_Liberated, Zoe lowered herself to the sheets and rolled onto her back, not minding to lay at an odd angle, the pillow abandoned. The candlelight flickered, and so did the parts of him that were illuminated._

_"Aw, hello," Samson welcomed._

_She was befuddled to blink into his eyes, resting innocent and torpid. "Hi."_

_Why does he look so happy? Zoe wondered, Maybe he… _

_The word held more meaning in the silence on either side._

_His somnolent grin reminded Zoe of something dear, an answer to a question that hadn't yet been asked. She luxuriated in the feeling, unable to verbalize why it felt so familiar. Was it from their scattered dialogues and glances across the dining table, because she'd seen that look a lot?_

'_Who are you__,' she questioned as Samson lazily kissed her._

_She listened for the answers in the way he touched and held her. The friend understood his yearning when she encouraged his fire to spark once more. Zoe felt his lust when he moved inside her for a second time, eyes occasionally meeting not quite by accident. And there was gratitude when he listened to intones and positioned a sodden finger down to thrill her._

_Confused and mind swirling, Zoe can't remember if she complimented Samson or mumbled incomprehensible jargon. But she didn't climax apparently, so it probably wasn't known._

_"I'm…" she struggled to say, holding him weakly like in sickness, "Goodnight."_

_"We __are__ in bed, Zoe," he said, still stuck in his desire. Not that she wanted it to stop._

_"No…" she crooned. "You made me tired."_

_"__Oooh__…"_

_The undeniable cue of understanding…_

_"Blight take it." Samson breathed shallowly, the air tickling her collarbone, "I didn't notice."_

_"I noticed you didn't notice."_

_"Sorry."_

_He sounded really humiliated. Boys!_

_"It's happened before," Zoe said._

_Samson moved so he was cradled next to her. She placed her fingers to his sticky manhood. It was a small bed. They were squished as not to fall off._

_"Can I be curious?" He said._

_"Was some prat who didn't think I was worth it."_

_"Prat," Samson agreed._

_The man tried to level his breathing as Zoe regained her strength. "I've only been with ones I've paid. Poor girls," he lamented. "Don't go often though."_

_The Blooming Rose,__ she acknowledged, "Like every other Templar."_

_It was an unspoken passage to adulthood rite that men went to the brothel once their training ended at 18._

_"But you're better than that."_

_How long had Phillipa been talking to Meredith? The worry returned. She sped up the motions of her hand until it was wet with his seed and her ears rang with his moans._

_Now Samson was sleepy._

_"Friends discount," Zoe said with a small smile. "I only went to the Rose once to experiment with a girl."_

_The bliss of satisfaction delayed his response. "Whoa."_

_"I haven't done anything with a girl since."_

_"Naww…"_

_It was a whine of disappointment. What an idiot._

_She didn't like the silence._

_"Let's keep going," Zoe said._

_"Serious?"_

_"You don't want to?"_

_Languidly, Samson gathered his resolve. "Of course I do."_

_Time had since disappeared._

It was nice, she realized, that even though she didn't try to remedy his failings that he'd never seemed bored or disappointed in her. She liked the times when he succeeded in charming her.

Those ached far more. There was so much injustice and mystery around the entire situation. She wasn't used to reminiscing on her actions or the past. Zoe wasn't sure why she felt compelled to now, exactly.

Zoe put the book away unread and blew out the candle.

* * *

The process leading up to Zoe and Phillipa's departure was rushed. They decided against organizing a festivity, for it would open themselves up for interrogation on what 'really' happened surrounding the Samson and Maddox business and why they were 'really' leaving. More importantly, their departure was also not about anything the girls considered merry. Zoe was sick of saying, '_Really_, Orlais sounds super interesting,' to passers-by who asked, and also things like, 'No, Meredith has nothing to do with it.'

Sometimes she even had to thread, 'Samson's an idiot,' into the rationales.

Phillipa made her life far simpler and said 'The Maker is guiding me there'. Granted, she also was talented at deflecting questions by abruptly changing the subject. Phillipa was so much more level headed than Zoe was.

Zoe however, didn't like the idea of answering 'So why did you sleep with him if he's an idiot?' with 'It was a sign from the Maker'.

When Ser Chandler asked her, her increased tolerance of him made her ask, "Why does that matter to you?"

She suspected maybe he wanted her, because lots of boys did. However, Ser Chandler was also not the sort of person to discuss personal details. It made the question all the more unusual.

"It does. So what's the reason?"

Zoe felt like her body might disintegrate, as a sense of destruction enveloped her. She went with the short answer, the one that made the most sense. "I don't know."

Chandler gave a shrewd smile. "Guess so." He looked like he wanted to fidget, "If you ever figure it out, write to me."

Zoe cocked her head, wordlessly requesting an explanation.

"I talked to Samson recently about it," Chandler mentioned hastily.

"And that's going to help? Why doesn't he talk to me?" Zoe didn't mean to sound so irritated. How did all these men make sense of the world?

"Like you said, he's an idiot," Chandler said, avoiding her eye, "Just if you manage to think of anything."

Zoe sighed in weary agreement. It was not like there was much other choice. But there should be!

Irked by all this labrish, she snapped, "Look I don't know if you're hiding something or have an agenda, but if this is all some attempt to get close to me, I advise you say so before you lose your chance."

Chandler looked bewildered. "The butterfly has poisonous spores."

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing at all," Chandler said with a grin, "The nickname's been _fluttering_ around."

Zoe tried to smile in appreciation of the pun, but it probably looked more like a grimace. "You're hilarious."

The sarcasm wasn't lost on him.

"Zoe, you know how desperate I am. I'd lay down with any woman, strings attached or not."

Zoe looked him up and down. She liked sex, but not enough to be aimless. "Good luck with that," she said, turning to depart, "I'm not going to be one of them."

* * *

Zoe knocked on Cullen's door in stockings, in a simple dress and a large cloak. Phillipa was close behind, wearing many Ferelden layers over her pink dress. Travelling by sea was supposed to be cold.

When Cullen opened the door, he managed a half smile, looking slightly surprised, upon recognizing them. "Zoe," he said. In a flash his eyes darted to the small bags around the girls shoulders. "You… is that _all_ you're bringing with you?"

"I wish!" Zoe said with a small smile. "No, the rest of our luggage has already been put away on the ship. We have a bit over an hour before it leaves, so we thought we'd say goodbye."

"I see." Cullen was probably caught between formality and a desire to be friendly. "'Goodbye' is a tad melodramatic. You might be coming back, Zoe, and we will be writing to each other. It isn't the end of the world."

Phillipa's waterworks started again. Zoe figured saying 'writing letters isn't the end of the world' wasn't the best phrasing.

"S-Sorry." Her roommate said, wiping her eyes. "I am more upset about… the thought of abandoning my father… and you."

"You are not abandoning him," Cullen told her, with a hint of boldness. "Nor I. You are taking care of your own health. Your father doesn't want you to be so miserable, Phillipa."

"I k-know." Phillipa tried her best to be strong. "It is… I am grateful my sister is coming with me, but-"

"It's okay, sister." Zoe said. "I thought… well-" She looked at Cullen, sheepish, "I know we've never hugged you before but first time for everything."

Phillipa sniffled loudly at this.

"I welcome hugs," Cullen said with a small smile. He wrapped his arms around Zoe, and then he waved one of his hands. "There's room in this hug for you too, Phillipa."

It took a few moments, but Phillipa eventually put one arm around Zoe and one around Cullen. "T-Thank you," she murmured.

* * *

"This is a pleasant spot," Phillipa said, remarking on the bench on the ship. In reality it was one of the only places that had not already been taken.

"Yeah."

They sat down and Zoe let her smaller bag fall to the recently polished, scratched flooring.

A motley crew were also passengers: muscly men and women, possibly mercenaries or builders, and also children with their parents, maybe refugees or those returning home. What the interior lacked were people Zoe and Phillipa's own age. None looked the part to be Templars, either, judging by the smudges on their skin. The closest were a group of frivolous girls from Antiva talking about gifts for a baby.

Did it matter? Probably not, though Zoe felt compelled to stay near Phillipa the entire journey. "How long until we have until it leaves?"

"Ten minutes, I believe," Phillipa explained.

Zoe felt inexplicably restless, and she didn't want to start cramming through the Orlesian phrasebook with Phillipa yet. She got to her feet. "I'm going for a walk."

So she explored the deck, thinking about what had a good view of the ocean or where the best place to vomit was. Many benches were positioned around the outline of the deck, with maps, memorabilia, paintings and sketches along the walls. She was grateful her brother Jed had lent her some coin to pay for the last quarter of this expense.

For a moment, her eyes scanning the passengers, she wondered why they were there and what they were doing. Did they have a happy or a sad story? Zoe was surprised she wanted to know. Even if it was a terrible story, part of her _still_ wanted to know. Maybe she hoped it would allow her to understand herself. Or maybe she simply cared.

Eventually she locked herself within the cubical of the toilet, sat down and covered her face in her hands. In the privacy of her own mind, and away from onlookers, she divulged in the memory of Samson again. She pretended she'd taken a potion like a good girl and planned the whole affair. But the reality was she hadn't planned anything and it was a spur of the moment choice.

_Zoe was on top of him, at least, that's where it had started. Now it was where she thought she was by the light. They'd cornered themselves against the head of the bed… or was it the corner of the wall? Samson held her thighs around him. They were both positioned upright, if the spinal curvature counted as that. Zoe felt a lot like she was being crammed into a box, but if that was the case, she was fine with it. Urging Samson onward was an anodyne, yet also a stimulant, slickening and wetting her with every moment. Her brain a haze, heated like she was seconds from fainting, her desire was all that existed. _

"_Come closer," she mumbled. Logically, they were as close as it was possible to be, but Zoe didn't care. It was the only thought she remembered that made sense. _

_Samson didn't say anything. Maybe he hadn't heard, or something. Colours blurred in front of her eyes and she could have allowed the world to vanish if it meant he went with her. _

_Disorientated and wanting to repeat the words with her body, Zoe reached for him. Her back curved forward as her neck was, but she pushed against his arousal. Faster. Closer. Deeper. It couldn't stop. None of this was allowed to stop. His breath was as shallow and rapid as hers. _

_Her fingertips reached his arms as he leaned against her shoulders. She wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could. It disrupted their rhythm temporarily, but Zoe hoisted herself back up so they were almost where they had started. This was very different to where they had begun. This wasn't a position at all and just a mess of bodies, yet they made sense of that mess. She was showing all of herself, she knew. Did he? _

_Zoe let her thighs fall wider, to allow him more closeness. Her back both wanted to go more forward, to stop herself falling over, and also go back, from practically exploding. Her mind reeled and out of her mouth, came a similar stream of disjointed thought. _

_It wasn't like Jerome. That had been passion. Here, they'd transcended beyond the fire, and found something else. What that was, Zoe did not know. It wasn't just that he felt good. Samson was safe, kind and wasn't going to let her go. She needed that so much. Like his warmth was her salvation, she craved it. Home. _

_Zoe pulled Samson nearer. "Come… closs…er," she mumbled, a purr from her lips. Desperation lived somewhere inside too, a sadness. _

"_You are so close," Samson muttered. It was an observation, like he couldn't believe it. _

"_Wrong." Zoe said again, mostly in a blissful haze, "Isn't… enough."_

_They kissed again, but where it ended or began, there was no telling. Both were striving to match the other's feeling. _

_When she convulsed and her teeth parted to make way for the elongated moan that she expelled, Samson held her as tightly as he possibly could. He made a sound too, but was too spent. He'd already given her everything. _

"_You're…" Samson tried to say something, as she fell limp. They collapsed into each other like they'd met their end and were cherishing their last breaths. _

_Zoe also had nothing. Her mind was so full of something but it wouldn't come out of her mouth. _

_Neither of them had anything at all. _

Having reached a similar euphoria, Zoe withdrew her fingers from her slickness and exhaled as fully as she could without making a sound. She was pleased that her ability to orgasm discreetly had a use, like on this ship, in the Gallows showers or the garderobe. Disgracing herself was liberation. It made her feel like nothing had changed. In his arms she was a faultless person who could do no wrong.

There was so much wrong.

There were few insights as to why she didn't care about him putting his seed inside her. One was a refusal to acknowledge reality. Ignoring the constraints of the future meant that their time together could last forever and her world would remain stable. And it meant he might remember her as the girl who had been not only beautiful but reckless, the friend who had given him everything in a moment of benevolence.

Sleeping with Samson _needed_ to happen, but there were many potential answers to why she felt this. It could have been she was desperate and Samson was an easy catch. Maybe she was trying to escape her insurmountable fear that Phillipa would soon leave her. Perhaps he was too difficult to turn down, or too attractive to refuse.

But it wasn't like Maddox. She swore it wasn't. Phillipa was paranoid that's what it was turning into, but romance or intrigue was the missing detail. Samson and Zoe were _not_ a romance. For that, she'd have to have feelings, and she knew what that had felt like with Jerome. Being with Samson didn't feel like that. Whatever the reason was for choosing to bed him, what mattered is that it had happened and some unspoken requirement had been met.

They had nothing.

Zoe pictured herself seated outside the Gallows that night Samson walked away from her. She didn't know why she'd cried. It had come over her unbidden. Maybe it was her period, but it also didn't feel like _that_.

She ran after him. 'How could you let yourself get caught talking to Maddox?' she shouted after him, 'Didn't you think it would get noticed eventually?'

She wasn't sure what Samson would do. She thought she had some idea of who he was, but maybe he was right. He wasn't the person she'd known.

Still, she imagined him stopping to watch her cry and sob.

'How could Meredith do this to us?' she demanded, 'I don't get it. Did she think this would make us behave better?'

Again, Samson even in her mind would not answer. She had no idea how he would reply.

'Why am I not allowed to care about you?' she shouted, 'If I'm supposedly your favourite person, doesn't that mean you should keep me the closest?'

Zoe pulled herself from the images. It didn't matter what the answer to that was. It didn't change what Samson had told her. He was shutting her out. She was no fool. Jerome had done the same. She had to move on now. He was just another idiot boy.

The woman moved out of the cubical. She had been waiting for the moment when the full gravity of her situation to fall upon her, but it wasn't with Cullen, when she said goodbye to her parents and brothers, or when she entered the boat and found a seat she liked next to Phillipa and the others who were also bound to Orlais.

The emotions of longing and grief arrived in hefty amplitude when Zoe saw Kirkwall was out of sight from one of the windows. The ocean was all that was left. It wasn't the same waves she was used to, and she doubted it smelled the same. She didn't have oars that she could direct in circles if she wanted. This boat was moving her further away from home… what she _thought_ was home.

Wordlessly, Zoe pulled her gaze away and reached for her sister's hand the moment she sat back down. Their fingers interlocked with implicit understanding of what they were leaving behind. She stared at the wall in front of her without actually seeing it. Her memories danced in her mind, a blessing and a curse. There was the banter in corridors, climbing stairs and during meal times. In them Phillipa smiled happily, Cullen lectured them about the peculiar behaviours of his charges and Samson… occasionally let them know he existed and tried to cheat his way through trifles of conversation in order to grab Zoe's attention.

Something felt wrong inside, an ever elusive poison.

As the tears trickled down her face, she considered Samson's words in the Hanged Man.

_What was keeping you there before? _

She knew the answer to _that_. Phillipa.

Blood family aside, the sisterhood she had with Phillipa was stronger by how many years they had known each other in close proximity. She had chosen to stay with her Templar sister over her family, friends and the Gallows itself, even if she cared for them all.

"Goodbye Kirkwall," she said, slowly to herself.

The hardest truth to accept was that if the White Spire could make Phillipa smile again, Zoe probably wouldn't ever come back to the Gallows.

Guilt descended upon her like the waves of the sea. Little did Zoe know the feeling would linger for years. When she was older and wiser, she would still find it festering underneath layers of new, however joyous memories.

And she'd know for certain Meredith was wrong. Some hurts were too much to disappear by the passage of time.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ This is the end of Part 2! Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed reading Zoe's perspective on things.

The title was a lyric from the song "All I Ask of You" from Phantom of the Opera.

Beta credit - Flaminea. AgapeErosPhilia (from September 2016 - yep that's how long this has been sitting on my computer)


	28. Antrum - Cave

Making his bearings in the sand, Samson lowered himself onto a blackened rock that didn't look like it would pierce him in two and placed his hands in front of the fire. A creature was spit roasted in the middle, one he couldn't be sure of since its appearance was distorted by flames. This cavern on the Wounded Coast was cold, chilly and stunk of grime of the ocean, and other things that he simply did not want to know the full details of. Half a dozen other figures were huddled around the fire, men and women with careworn, jaundiced features, kept warm in layers of cloaks and sheets. It was difficult to believe they were mages. Here, without robes and staffs, they were indistinguishable from any old sod off the street. He could have been one of them, really. From the looks on their faces, it seemed they found him equally bewildering.

"We hope you're not a fussy eater," a female mage with purple markings on both cheeks said.

Samson hadn't thought of much of it, staring at something with far too many legs. "Is that a spider?"

It certainly looked like one.

"It is the largest of its kind, a Queen," Decimus replied with a grin.

"By all means, please feel no pressure about eating it," a tanned young lad answered, "I have to eat them with my eyes closed. I'm incredibly phobic of them. I know it's dead but it makes me want to leave the cave."

"Run home and die then," another man answered.

"Do you have tits or balls, Alain?" inquired a brunette sitting on Decimus's lap.

"You are so cruel to me!" Alain replied indignantly.

"Grace's elegance is only shown when it is needed," Decimus explained, wrapping an arm around her belly.

Grace appeared contemptuous. "Your mother and father should have named you Aileen."

"Can the two of you stop it?" the one with the markings on her face said, exasperated, "I have a headache from the fumes and I'd rather we chatted normally."

She turned the spit that the spider was cooking on.

Someone far away from Samson feigned a cough. "_Normal_!"

"Normal people!" snickered another.

"Let's all revel in our normalcy, everybody!"

_This lot climbed up the wrong tree,_ Samson thought absently. Yet he understood the horrors of a headache. In the letter explaining he was allowed to meet the group, Decimus wrote that they'd escaped the Starkhaven Circle, but given something awful happened there, it was a topic to be avoided. He also recommended that since most of these mages lived inside the cave, it was best not to mention his previous work as a Templar until they trusted him more. As wary as Decimus may be, the rest of the mages were apparently more vigilant and cautious when it came to outsiders.

So the ex-Templar spoke of the only other thing he could think of. "Is spider a gift to the tastebuds or what?"

A variety of reactions echoed around the cavern, like gasps, 'Yes', 'Never' and 'Eh.'. The mages at the other end had begun philosophising about what it meant to be sane. Given how little he cared about that, Samson thought he'd picked a good place to sit. He watched the spider sizzle and smoke under the licks of flame, cringing slightly as it would randomly twitch as an illusion of the smoke.

"I close my eyes and pretend I'm eating… uhhh… burned rabbit," Alain said tentatively, with a quiver.

"Your ideas are not in the slightest correct," Grace disagreed, "the legs are like rat tails."

"You're the only one who likes the tails!"

"Someone has to eat them, Alain."

The soft spoken one of the group inhaled sharply, like a mother might when debating when to scold her children. "Your name is Samson?"

"It is," Samson replied, admiring the lady's ability to stay calm.

"My dear, you are the bravest to eat those parts." Decimus apprized Grace.

Quick to adapt to the diverging conversations, Samson continued his with the one cooking, "How long have you been here?"

"A month or so," the woman said slowly, "We're not doing well. The boys have the appetites of Rams and the squawkiness of irate birds day in and out."

Taking a liking to her already, he inquired, "Can I have your name, madam?"

"Terrie." The mage's purple painted lips curled into a small smile. "I'm disappointed my cooking knowledge from the Circle is wasted on frying these horrible things."

Samson peered over the fire so he wouldn't have to look at the giant spider, "Did you learn cooking from a senior mage at your Circle?"

"Maker no. I befriended one of the apprentice chefs. It wasn't satisfying to simply read about scrumptious meals out of a book," she said.

"Does spider taste that bad?"

"I no longer mind what anything tastes like," Terrie said, with a voice reminiscent of a Tranquil, "I see food. I eat it. It's not like we can wander far from here." She turned over the spider slightly with help of her magic.

"Sounds wretched."

"It is fine once you get used to it, but I hate getting the frizzly bits at the back of my throat. Sometimes you miss some cutting it off, see." Abruptly, the mage wiped her eyes as tears fell from them. "It's just the fumes, I promise on the Circle's ashes."

Alain moved closer to where Terrie was seated and placed a timid finger on her arm. "Don't think about it, Terrie."

"I know," she said sadly, "I'm fine."

Samson peered at Grace, who was drawing patterns in the back of Decimus's hand. Eating spider wasn't something you did every day – then again, right now anything would be better than fish.

"If you have any left over, I'll try a bit."

"I pray you can stomach it," Alain said, "I dearly hope I don't have to do cleaning vomit duty in here again."

The ex-Templar didn't speak much until they served food, and would have helped but they all pounced at it like the very creature they were about to eat.

"Samson." Alain nudged him tentatively, holding out a half a mouthful worth of spider leg.

Taking it with a thankful nod, the man picked off the stray bits of spider fuzz still clinging to it, trying to scrape it off with his nails. Terrie probably had the right idea about that.

_I can't believe I'm doing this,_ he thought, taking Alain's advice and shutting his eyes as he chewed into it. He'd never had anything quite like it. Crunchy outside, chewy inside… it wasn't even terrible, although it did remind him of fish, which was disappointing. Samson had to admit he felt less ludicrous knowing the others had been eating spider regularly.

"Where do you live anyhow?" Grace said through a mouthful, staring at Samson. The group silenced and all of a sudden every pair of eyes were on him.

He kept the answer as vague as possible. "Kirkwall."

"He works for the Red Iron, Grace," Decimus said calmly.

"I know that." Grace seemed unconvinced. "But I doubt there are many people whose lifelong dream is to be a mercenary."

"Shush lady, I like it!" said another mage too far out of earshot.

"I like it too!"

"So rude, Grace."

"Women!"

The other mages started debating the utility of mercenaries in society in heated voices.

Again, Samson was glad he hadn't sat between them.

"You… wanted to meet us?" Alain continued the conversation, licking fat off his fingers, "but why?"

"Decimus helped me," Samson said slowly, "so I want to return the favour."

"But… why?" the young lad asked again, as if the idea of returning favours was foreign.

Surrounded by so many prying eyes, the crackling fire was the only part of the cave that was comforting. He met eyes with Decimus, who looked stern, but patiently so, then turned his gaze to Terrie, who was blowing on the fire to rise it.

"You won't go nattering if I say?" he tested.

A number of heads shook around the circle, and Decimus smirked, "No one to tell."

"Hmm…"

As he pondered on the best means to phrase the answer, the fire stopped hissing. Terrie was no longer kindling it. She abandoned her task to watch him with the same awkward indecisiveness that Alain did.

"One of my good friends was a mage," he began carefully, "Though I'm not supposed to admit it, I tried to help him and it turned to rubbish. I didn't mean for it to turn out that way. It was hardly my fault, but I have a duty to make it up to him… make it up to all of you."

Still feeling guarded himself, Samson didn't mention his role in the Circle. The former Templar surprised himself that this explanation made more sense than a lot of the garbage floating in his brain these days. In fact, it made him feel lighter to confess this truth. Helping this group of mages was a duty he could perform with little consequence outside the Circle if it was done right.

The mages eyed each other, like speaking with thoughts alone.

"What role did you have in making it turn to rubbish?" Grace asked.

"_Grace_!" Alain gasped.

"Samson," Decimus spoke over his lady, "Whatever mistake you made, that strikes me as an honest answer. It is much appreciated. I personally am impressed."

"I hope so," Samson admitted, sheepishly.

"I am curious…" Terrie began, and her expression struck him as kind, "How do you plan to make up for your guilt?"

"It's not _guilt_-" Samson began.

"-Yes it is." Decimus interrupted, as though that finished the discussion. Samson wanted to argue, but he realized he wasn't certain on how to describe the feeling any better.

Terrie continued to look into Samson's eyes, and he answered to her and not the others.

"I was hoping you could tell me that," he said, "You know better."

The mages to his right suggested answers.

"Freedom of course!"

"Justice!"  
"There's no righteousness without mercy."

"FREEDOM!"

"I'd like to not be immediately accused of wickedness without causing any trouble," Alain said softly, avoiding Samson's eye.

"You'd be mad to think you can change Thedas's cruel approaches like this," Grace mumbled, stroking Decimus's beard, "It's so ingrained in this stinking world."

"I'll do what I can," Samson said, remembering the mage girl he had helped escape. He peered at Terrie, who was brushing soot from her dress. Her demeanour held an earnestness and innocence that reminded him of that young elf. As simply as that, he remembered how cold and muddled he had felt on that night – figuring out what happened to that girl it would give him peace of mind too.

"Psst!" Alain poked Terrie's boot, whispering under his breath like playing a game, "I think he wants to know your opinion."

_That kid is perceptive,_ Samson remarked.

Terrie rose to her feet. "I don't have an opinion," she said with that same flatness, "Excuse me, I need to search for more food."

Before he could stop himself, Samson got to his feet too. "That's something I can assist you with."

Terrie peered back at him and gave another rueful smile. "Come on, then."

Whistles burst from a corner of the group. "Don't be gone too long."

Samson smiled as he stepped around the other rocks and other mages. That suggestive joking reminded him of Maddox, of Bailey, or simply the Gallows in general. The memories felt joyful, yet sorely distant and phantasmagorical, like perhaps they had only existed inside his head. As strange as this feature made him feel, he knew those memories were real. He only led a very different life now.

"Good luck Samson!" Alain called.

The young woman lit a lantern with the fire and walked further down a stone staircase. Her dress, with mauve and greying harlequin checkers and frills around the shoulders, looked like it used to belong to a Hightown teenager. They didn't talk until all the voices were gone.

"I didn't think you hunted," Terrie said bewildered, "Do you have a weapon?"

"I used to," Samson said, thinking he might sound less stupid if he added, "Work's been slow lately."

"That can be fixed," she said. They walked down the stairs in silence, to a patch of sand further away. With a whip of her hand a very large chest was pulled out from under the ground.

"That's convenient," he said, wishing it was that easy to get riches.

"We made it that way," Terrie said, and she bent down on her knees to open the chest manually, "Our staffs are in another one, but this is where we keep the weapons we don't want to sell."

In other words, it didn't contain gold. Samson couldn't help but feel disappointed, though he didn't know why he was expecting anything more than weapons. It flung open and he was hit with dust.

"What's your preference?"

The man stepped closer to look inside. "Any swords?"

"We won't miss this one," Terrie said, picking out a slightly rusted silver sword. It wasn't any design Samson was familiar with, but he took it from her hands. It was surprisingly light, suitable for a one-handed weapon -perhaps too light. It did not matter. He could adapt.

"Can I keep it?"

"If it was up to me, I'd let you," she explained, "but I need to ask permission from the one who found it."

"Fair choice," Samson said, gripping the sword tighter with one hand, "There only spiders down here?"

"Bears, mabari, rats, strange reptiles…" Terrie listed. She was very short, at least by a head, but Samson felt protective of her in the same way he did about Phillipa – out of respect.

"Your headache much better?" he wondered, keeping an eye out in front.

"Never," Terrie said, "I don't eat close to the amount I'm supposed to. I haven't felt like myself for a while."

"I know the feeling."

"You don't get much food either?" Terrie sounded worried, "But you live in the city!"

"That doesn't mean much, girly," Samson pointed out.

"_Terrie_."

After a pause, the woman pointed up to the darkness. "See the webs?"

Samson looked to the ceiling and felt a chill go down his spine. He didn't know spiders were capable of making such big webs. They covered the entire surface, and many layers upon layers of it.

"There are fresh ones." Terrie's finger pointed to some to left. "You can tell because there are less dead insects and holes in it."

He tried to see the differences, but all the webs looked the bloody same. "How many of those things live in here?"

"I don't want to count, if that's what you're saying," Terrie said, placing the lantern on the ground and sweept her palm upwards. A lance of flame shot out and the streams of white caught alight, expanding until shower of ashes fell from the ceiling. Then a terrible screech echoed, so loud Samson swore, but even that was too quiet to drown it out.

"What's the plan?" he muttered to the mage, standing near her.

"Defend me," Terrie said, her eyes darting around for the spider.

"Yes, madam."

Samson still found he felt unbalanced without a shield, but he'd manage. He bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself swearing when a gigantic russet spider appeared from above them and sprayed an olive coloured acid over them. Terrie blocked it with an umbrella of silvery light around them. It splattered over the sand and sizzled, while her barrier flickered and vanished. Samson was impressed by her on-point reflexes.

"Aim for the eyes or fangs first," she said, "You can pick."

The spider screeched again and Samson took this moment to lunge forward and pierce out one of its many eyes. As one of its pincers lurched towards him and was poorly blocked, it lacerated part of his arm. Ignoring the shooting pain, he swung at the spider and left one of the pincers hanging. Sticky brown blood poured from it. Terrie assisted with more bursts of fire, taking care not to hit Samson. By the time it kneeled over, his muscles were aching. He felt more worn out than he had for a while. Samson volunteered to pull the spider from the scene, but quickly realized that it was impossible for one person to do. With difficulty and a grateful smile, Terrie dragged it across the sand with a spell and they retreated.

Mages were incredible. Even with such a simple spell, he'd never seen it used on a creature or enemy, only objects for practice. In awe, he admired how Terrie practically glowed with the precision, strength and control in the magic she was using. By how only a few muscles in her face were taut, she'd clearly done this many times before. If only he could do magic like that too…

"Alain was right," he said after a while, "I want to know what you'd like to see me do to help mages."

"Freedom isn't everything," Terrie said, "Living this way has taught me this much. It's important to have safety and a home, too. Even out the Circle, we still have the Templars looking out for us."

"You don't reckon you're truly free, then?" Samson asked.

"I don't know," Terrie said, in a tone that suggested she didn't have the capacity to think about it. "If the Templars _really_ wanted to protect us, they'd do so outside the Circle too. They can still watch us. There is a purpose to being monitored, but more independence would do much good. It would be wonderful to get a nice walk, fresh air… Parents don't leave their children trapped indoors all the time, even if they are misbehaving monsters. That's seen as cruelty."

"You're clever," Samson remarked, baffled he couldn't think of this himself.

"I miss my personal Guard – that's what Templars are, aren't they?" Terrie reminisced, "I think life would be so much better right now if I just had one with me. He could say I was good. He'd tell his fellow Templars how lovely I am. I wouldn't have to feel like I didn't have choices. Good mages would be rewarded for their work."

He looked at the purple markings on Terrie's face as she spoke, wondering what they were supposed to be a pattern of. Again, he was reminded of the elf girl he let escape, and hoped she felt free, and didn't resent him for letting her go. The idea of mages simply being free was a more complicated idea than he could have realized from his perspective. Terrie observed him curiously, and from this close, he realized she looked like she didn't have eyebrows for how thin and light they were. Then, in some sick part of his head he wondered if the eyebrows were the same shade as…

Samson pulled himself from the intrusive thought, and was inclined to agree with her. A system where mages could be monitored outside sounded like the best of both worlds in theory. Perhaps he could be a Guard of Mages to praise her. It sounded like she would appreciate attention for her efforts… though it didn't seem like the revelation of his previous title would benefit him. A fierce desire to care for her rose within him, a rare tenderness he had only felt for the charges he enjoyed watching the most.

"Do you hate Templars?" he muttered, not sure why he was quiet when no one else could hear them. "Was leaving the Circle a bad idea?"

"I don't know," Terrie said blankly, looking at Samson with an undeniable purity.

"I'll protect your people," he said, "I'll be a personal Guard. Not just for you, for all of them."

"That's very nice of you," the mage said, sounding tired, "but it won't work in Kirkwall, or anywhere, how things are."

"There are other ways I can protect them." he pressed, "There are ways I can show them mercy and freedom, as all the lovely mages deserve."

"I'm not sure I deserve lovely," Terrie said slowly, "I can't do anything I could before. I feel so weak."

"That's not what I saw just now."

Terrie shook her head, like Samson was mental. "I want a full stomach. I want to make sauce for meat, dressing for salad, and to brew tea – grind garlic, oil, herbs – something to make spider look appetizing!" Tears rolled down her face, and even if she wiped them away Samson didn't interrupt her. "I wanted to work in a kitchen!"

She was the most composed crier Samson had ever met.

"This is not who you are," he said, "and you know it. Empty stomachs make monsters out of the best of us. You are doing a great service to your brothers and sisters. The real you is lovely, madam."

"_Madam_," she repeated, disbelieving, "You keep saying that, while I don't think anyone has called me that in my life. And I don't think I've ever heard someone _outside_ the Circle refer to us as 'brothers and sisters'."

She observed him sternly, looked down at his boots, to the bloody sword to the scars on his neck to his face.

"There's a lot I don't tell," Samson admitted, "but maybe one day I'll tell you, sister."

"This I can be content with." Terrie smiled demurely. "Could you please call me madam, instead?"

On Terrie's instruction, Samson assisted with finding various herbs and food them from the nearby Sundermount. This was the easiest job he'd ever had, and remarkably peaceful.

* * *

Returning to the tunnels under Darktown filled Samson with uneasiness. The sting at his throat where Faith had sliced him felt raw. When he ran a finger along the scar, he was bewildered to find it closed. Still, he found his way well enough and it was difficult to keep his vehemence in check when he looked down at the familiar Carta member with a glass eye. With a nod and terse greeting, Samson exchanged the empty set of vials for ones with luminous blue liquid, complete with a request for an increased amount of lyrium. Eindride glanced it briefly, one of his eyes glistening in the glow of the lantern.

"This is unexpected," the dwarf said, "The amount needed will take time to secure. By the following month, I doubt we would have found adequate clusters of raw lyrium."

Samson took a deep breath. "You're saying you can't fulfil the order?"

"We will try," Eindride said carefully, "though we have not had such a substantial increase in demand before. I expect this will take us six weeks to collect."

A modicum of panic at the thought of _not more withdrawal_ made Samson nearly stop breathing.

"I don't think Mistress Adessi will be pleased," he said, trying to sound threatening.

"No, I don't think so," Eindride agreed, with a small grin, "though that's your burden to bear, captive."

Biting the inside of his mouth, Samson resisted lashing out at the stingy ratbag. "Will it be improved the following month?"

"I expect so," Eindride replied, "It only will take some re-organization and determining where our new raw lyrium collections will grow."

Once Samson returned with the crate, Faith spread the vials along the table in a line and stared intensely at it. They debated portions with care, and organized the glasses into different levels of the cabinet depending on when they could be consumed. Samson shared Faith's feeling of distaste and consternation. They already knew this month would be difficult.

As each day passed, he had a constant anxiety that more suffering would follow. No matter how unpleasant life became, there remained a chance it could get worse. Despite Faith sharing small portions of her usual doses, neither of them felt they had enough. He didn't need as much as she did, but it still wasn't _enough_. Samson wasn't sure if the small amounts he took were equal to what he drank in the Circle or not, but his mind and body didn't agree. A constant sense of fever followed him around, he had the shakes at odd times and his concentration was precarious. Sleep was sometimes disrupted. It wasn't as bad as before, though it was enough to affect his demeanour. Faith was grumpier than he was. She went back to work sooner than he'd anticipated, and Samson decided to only go _fishing for coin _at night. That way, when he was home, Faith was home, but mentally there wasn't always someone there.

Samson had to repeat what he was saying to her a few times, just because her eyes often glazed over and she appeared like she was in another universe, having lost concentration. Faith also sometimes talked to the lyrium song, which was incredibly bizarre to watch, as though she was talking to herself, but what she was saying didn't make sense. He would have been a lot more frustrated if he hadn't accidentally neglected to listen to her sometimes too.

But no matter how grumpy or distracted they were, there was _the plan_. It worked most of the time. If it didn't, they tried again. When Samson got sick of it -a miracle in of itself- he did strength training and swords drills until his body screamed in absolute agony. He asked Faith to join him, and she did only once, reluctantly, but it didn't work on her. It used to work in the past, but not anymore, she said. This led them to come up with some of, if not the, strangest compromises known to man. When Samson went for walks he took Faith for a piggyback ride at the same time, which made passers-by giggle and stare. He was more worried about her falling off or her becoming disgusted by the sweat build up from where her breasts, belly and hips pressed into his back. Thoughts of lyrium were pushed away from exertion, so all peculiarity aside it was an effective secondary plan to sex. It still made him think of sex, but that was beside the point.

"I have a game, Samson," Faith said.

"Yes, princess?"

"Tell me a line from the Chant, but replace all the names with something to do with the poison."

"You played this before?" Samson said, giving a nod of acknowledgement to an onlooker in an attempt to deter them. "You start."

Faith rested the side of her face on Samson's shoulder. "_So the poison said to its followers: "You who stand before the gates. You who have followed me into the heart of evil_…"

"That's not the original?" he laughed.

"_The fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat. Raise your voices to the heavens! Remember_:"  
Samson finished the line with her, "_Not alone do we stand on the field of battle_."

People kept staring. Fuck them.

"_The poison is with us! Their Song shall be our banner_," Faith continued. While Samson couldn't quite remember the lines exactly, he mumbled along to the parts that he did, uncertainly.

"_And we shall bear it through the gates of that city and deliver it. To our brothers and sisters awaiting their freedom," _

"… _Within those walls," _Samson muttered.

"_At last, the Song shall shine upon all of creation," _Faith took over again.

"_If we are only strong enough to carry it," _they finished.

"What happens if The Maker and Andraste are mentioned in the same passage_?" _Samson heaved, sweating all over now.

"Make it up," Faith said.

Samson did make it up. He twisted it into something stupid, so much that it made them burst into the giggles of gossiping girls. Trying to distract themselves from lyrium, they spoke louder as if drunk.

"Pardon me," a passer-by said, so proper and clean, "I find that offensive. Do you mind?"

"I find _you_ offensive!" Samson shot back, becoming light headed from all the exercise. The man looked affronted.

Faith buried her face in Samson's shoulder not to laugh, but Samson could feel her shaking. He grinned, feeling somewhat proud of himself.

"I'll let the Guard know about this!" the stranger threatened.

"Go right ahead," Samson said dismissively. Depending on who was spoken to, the Guard might find this equally funny.

As the Maker would have it, Nathara was summoned, someone who had a hit or miss chance of taking a joke.

"I wasn't suspecting this ludicrousness was a fault of yours, Guardsman," she said, abandoning her sword and crossing her arms. "Dare I ask why you are terrorizing the stupid?"

He stood in one spot to reply while Faith gripped him tighter as she was slipping. There was no debate about it – saying they were deliberately trying to distract themselves from cravings would not be taken well. So they'd be elusive.

"I'm making myself popular around here," Samson said with a grin.

The elf's line of vision rose to Faith, her pointed ears as sharp as her voice, "And you have a fetish for women climbing on top of you as well?"

Faith couldn't contain her laughter anymore. It burst out ringing, so close to his ears Samson flinched.

"I shall ask that you keep your voices down," Nathara said coolly, "but do it again and you know what I must do."

"I think having another woman terrorize him will work admirably," Faith said. Samson could almost _hear_ her smile even if he couldn't see it. "I'll claim his legs, and you can have his arms."

The Guardswoman wasn't fooled. She put her hands on her hips and went along with the joke, "Yes, I did say I would pulverize him and eat him with my breakfast. Is that brutal enough, mistress?"

Samson didn't think he'd ever met someone who had perfected sarcasm to such an extent, not even him. "I won't go down without a fight," he reminded them.

"Indeed, for you are _un espèce d'idiot_," Nathara said bluntly. She was wrong. If the two ladies tried to corner him he'd corner them right back.

"My dear Samson." The man was surprised to feel Faith caress the back of his ears. "You should have introduced me to this splendid elf sooner."

That was frankly the worst idea in all of Thedas. "I don't think so."

"Then you know you cannot win," The Guardswoman said with a slimy condescension. By now, it was hard to tell if the elf was joking or not. "I will make sure your nickname stays a legend in The Guard, friend, and I will also tell everybody of how a woman has finally figured out how to control you. I will take creative liberty – she even chooses what you eat and what you can wear, like you are a solemn child."

It was irksome that the part she made up at the end wasn't even far from the truth.

"You wouldn't, Nath," Samson tried to step forward, but his legs were hurting, "For me. Please. Tell me you won't."

Nathara turned on her heel. "I most certainly will. If you are less of a – what do you call it – _shithead_ – I shall apologize, but even then, the rumours will remain and become twisted for ages to come."

"Nath, no!"

"Samson," Faith muttered in his ear, as Samson readjusted how he was gripping onto her thighs, "apologizing is in your best interest."

"Oh, right." Samson was never good at these things. "Nath! Sorry!"

The elf looked over her shoulder. "Very well. I will be less harsh."

Samson dropped Faith and she caught herself on the ground, covered in sweat too, but still laughing. "Thank you, noble Guardswoman!"

Nathara gave a solemn smile. "I appreciate the entertainment today, dear lady. Farewell."

They walked back home then. It didn't stop Samson and Faith from going out on piggy back walks and playing the Chant of Poison game in the afternoons or evenings, but they were more careful. It was still fun. After these walks, Samson found he had an unwanted erection but was too exhausted to do anything about it. He never had enough strength to go jogging like before, because they didn't eat very much, and he felt like he'd faint out of sickness if he did.

The strangest of their distractions was a highly sexualized ritual. It wasn't good enough that Samson did his strength training, because then Faith would be left on her own at home and apparently missed him too much (he strongly doubted this was the reason). And so Faith's ubiquitous sex drive and the strength training were combined into a singular activity at home. One of the tamer ones of these involved Samson doing push ups without a shirt with Faith sitting on his back unclothed. She read cook books out to him, demanding he memorize them and hit him over his head with them when he made a mistake. Little did she know, it was nearly impossible to concentrate when his muscles were burning and he felt the curve of her ass, thighs and folds of her against him, how her bodily fluids were making his back sticky. The scent confused him. He couldn't decide if it made him feel alive or like he was about to die.

"How many cups of oats go in oatcakes?" she asked, with a threat in her voice.

"One?" Samson guessed, ensuring that his push up was in perfect form.

"Wrong."

"One and a half?"

"And you said you listened."

"Two?"

"Correct. How many push ups have you completed?"

"32," he replied, knowing he could have done double if she wasn't on top of him.

"Get up to 50."

"Self-righteous bitch!"

Samson got very strange associations with recipe books from then on. But all this physical exertion was killing him. His muscles ached for a few days after, and then he was compromised with work, so he usually sat against a wall and waited for passers-by to drop coin in. The exercise plan wasn't used very much because of this.

What was worse than all of this were some of the fools he met on the street at night.

"Hey street mongrel," a muscled man with a cigarette said, "You want coin?"

Samson raised an eyebrow from his place against the wall, feeling hard-edged by the form of address. "Only if you are willing to provide it, sir."

The stranger chuckled and looking bemused, peered over his shoulder at perhaps something in the distance. "A charming bloke like you can't charm someone into a job?"

Samson grinned, appreciatively. "Depends how ethical the method is."

Despite his slackened posture, he did not uncross his arms. The man leaned over and made an obscene gesture with his hands, one Samson recognized as code for _sucking cock_.

He filled with rage at being objectified by some nobody who had spoken two sentences to him. "That's outside my code of conduct, sir."

"Code of conduct. Good one." The stranger chuckled. "Guess you don't want coin desperately enough, eh?"

Samson felt his face go red as a number of potential answers went through his head. His emotions were so muddled up and numerous in that moment he couldn't describe them. Involuntarily, the muscles in his arm twitched.

_Don't punch him_, he thought, _don't kick him. You have to look polite. _"My code of conduct doesn't allow it. Sorry, gotta have a long chat to management."

The man peered down with a lecherous look on his face which made Samson want to vomit. "Shame considering how clever you are," he remarked, "Well if you're going to deny me, no dirt off my nose. Have a lovely night."

"You too, sir."

The following was _one_ of his most hateful moments, which was in itself rather horrific in retrospect. Samson tried to calm his breathing for a half a minute or so after the man departed and realized with dread that this night was so quiet he may not have another one willing to donate him coin. With a lot of effort he called, "Oi. How much coin were you gonna toss up?"

The man said twenty silver, which was honestly an insultingly miniscule amount for the task offered. Yet, he did it anyway.

* * *

Faith was furious with him. Samson suspected she would never find out, but fate had other plans when he noticed a number of blister-like sores appear on his tongue and hands, rimmed with white. He wondered if he had become ill from being out in the cold. That was not the case.

"What are those?" she inquired, suspiciously.

Samson frowned. "I dunno. Guess I'm sick."

He felt so lousy from the decreased amount of food these days that sickness seemed like a kindness.

Appearing contemptuous, Faith placed the back of her hand on his forehead, then removed it. "Have you been making other women scream in joy with your mouth?"

Samson winced. "That's a precise question."

"Indeed. It requires a precise answer."

Which led Samson to avoid her eye and feel embarrassed, "Not women…"

"What?"

"It wasn't what you think. Some nutter on the street a week ago said he would pay me coin if I did it."

"You thought it was an intelligent idea?" she demanded.

"He looked clean. I thought it would be fine," Samson said.

Faith made a huffy sound.

"Shut you. I just did what you do for much less!" he retorted, "Forget about it! We bought food with that money!"

Faith made a whinging sound and crossed her arms. "Why do you think I work in the Rose, you fool?"

Annoyed, he answered, "Because you're a slag?"

"Because I've been sick before from strangers!" Faith shouted, "What do you think happened with those vile bastards I opened my legs for when I wasn't sleeping at my grandpop's house? The Rose keeps out most of the diseased garbage because we're trained to see it!"

Samson waited until her outburst was over and pondered before answering. "Sorry. I didn't know."

"I am very ashamed."

"That's why I didn't tell you either."

Faith hesitated. "If you want to use your body to get coin, do it correctly or not at all."

"I will work for Meeran again before I work for Lusine," Samson replied scathingly.

"You'd prefer to murder innocent people?"

"Maybe!" Samson shot back with an invidious raise of an eyebrow, "No. Bleeding hell." His earlier excuse of not having the patience probably didn't hold anymore. By some miracle, he had enough endurance to manage the riff raff who talked to him on the streets. "I want to stay relatively unnoticed. I don't want to manage having a reputation for being a whore."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Well done. You're now one to me."

"Hah!" He wasn't sure if he was feeling spiteful or properly amused, though all desire to fight had left him. "It would be strange working with you too."

Faith put their plates away, sluggishly, and called from the sink, "You can make whatever choice you like. I'd prefer you didn't put your health at risk."

Samson chuckled. The bitch cared, saying she didn't want him to be in trouble. "I apologize for my mistake. I won't do it again."

He got up to clean the dishes too and realized she was crying. "What now?"

"I probably have it too," she said, "Now I'm going to get in trouble at work. Thanks a lot, you sick bastard."

"There must be a way to fix it," Samson said.

Faith merely sighed and tried to calm down. "And I can't do anything with you either in the meanwhile."

This seemed to upset her the most, judging by the new wave of tears. Samson chuckled. "If we're already sick, how much worse can it get?"

He never said anything like it again, because Faith punched his shoulder and left the house for an hour or two. Since that incident Samson was careful to avoid that stranger, or any suspicious stranger at all. On occasion he found himself spotted or unable to get away and had to charm his way out of conversation or justify why he wouldn't do what he did before. The stranger claimed that he had never made anyone sick and Samson must have gotten it from someone else, and a bunch of other nonsense. Sometimes he seriously considered consulting Punchline to poison the bastard, as approaching the Guard and admitted to what he had done to accidentally spur the stranger on in the first place was too humiliating. In the end, it seemed someone else had removed the trouble for him, because after a few years the man stopped appearing around Kirkwall. At least, Samson preferred to think _the slimy cock-loving_ _git_ had been murdered rather than moving to a different city.

He went to Meeran occasionally, but nothing more than that, accepting smuggling and courier jobs only. It was hard to keep from smirking sometimes. He felt a malicious pleasure at the thought that he, Samson, had Faith around, someone that his boss wanted and now had no contact with.

If the cravings were still there, by that point Faith and Samson were too tired to complain. They'd wash themselves up in the tiny tub and lie in the bed, doing nothing. Often times they couldn't be bothered cooking, or cleaning or even talking. When Samson was too tired to move Faith pleasured herself, but by that point Samson hardly cared anymore.

Samson liked sex better when it wasn't just a means of distraction. He almost wanted lyrium solely so he could have a break from it all. Faith understood this, and agreed, next month it would be better, next month they'd have more, they wouldn't have to do this so often, but she was also desperate, and he wanted to help her. After all, there was no reason Faith had to give him any lyrium, given she'd bought it with her own coin, but she did. If nothing else, they slept better because their bodies and brains were so dead that the withdrawal symptoms seemed confused as to what chaos to unleash.

He thought fondly on their first time, an experience driven by lust more than obligation, despite it not ending well. He also had nightmares of the woman whose face he'd bashed in, the young girl who was tied underneath a house, how he couldn't have freed her from that place himself.

* * *

Sometime in that month, Samson didn't know when, as the days were all a blur and blended in to each other, two interesting occurrences happened while he was fishing at night in the Docks. He did this when his body was too wrecked to do anything else.

After hours of peaceful water rippling and the swivel of the fishing line being retracted and swung, the solitude was broken by a burst of water. Startled and after much squinting, he spotted a woman with long dark hair, gasping, climbing out of the ocean onto the small ladders against the edge a couple of meters away. A satchel was pulled shortly after her, looking heavy from the water. Samson remembered it well because he thought he was hallucinating at the time, because it was so bleeding weird that a person would just _come out_ of there. The Docks was notoriously foul to swim in so he didn't think anyone would use it for that purpose.

"Just a bit longer, Isabela, you won't be dying today! Rest… soon!"

She sounded young, maybe around his age.

_Can hallucinations hallucinate_? Samson wondered, confused. With a gush of water the woman dragged herself up the steps and onto the main stone like a slug, exhausted and all dignity gone.

She wore an expensive golden necklace that framed her whole neck and a white tunic that barely covered her ass. Those were the _wrong_ clothes to go swimming in! They were completely see through, and her dark skin made the effect of the transparency worse. She moaned and lay on the Docks pavement for a few moments. Samson was the only other person there. He felt kind of filthy staring at her, so he tried not to and waited for the hallucination to go away. When it didn't, he retracted his fishing line, placed the rod in the bucket with his fish and approached her.

"Um…" he began, feeling apprehensive, "I never did think it was good to swim in there."

"Maker's bleeding balls- there's a darned person there, Isabela," she groaned, still talking to herself. She rolled her head lazily onto her other side to look at him, face soaked. "Oh great, and look, out of everyone to welcome you here it's a crazy person. I don't think the fish in that ocean are safe to eat. They kept biting at my toes."

"Haven't killed me yet," Samson said, though he was suddenly worried about the quality of Kirkwall's fish.

"Where in the n-n-name of the Maker a-am I?" the woman heaved, closing her eyes. She was shivering violently.

"Kirkwall," Samson said.

"Ohh, you've gotten yourself into trouble now, Isabela," she muttered.

"Yeah, it's not very exciting." Samson tried to humour her. "I'm Samson. Is Isabela your name?"

"Well done, Isabela." The woman kept talking to herself. "The crazy fishing rod lover now knows your name."

How screwed up was this woman?

"Hey," Samson interrupted, "I'm no crazier than you, Miss Mysteriously Appear out of the Ocean. That water's disgusting."

"Yeah, I guess I could do worse with the welcome," Isabela moaned, as though drunk. "I used to Captain a ship. Not anymore. I swam here in a storm… I'm lucky I actually found dry land. I was very prepared to die back there."

"It's probably better to be prepared to die than not," Samson admitted. He stepped closer. "Were you meeting someone here?"

Isabela chuckled, "I met you, didn't I?"

Samson shrugged, though he was amazed with how pretty she was up close. She could have been Faith's younger sister, almost.

"There are a few options on where you can go," he said, "There's the Chantry, the Guards might take care of you overnight, or I could take you back to my place."

The woman groaned. "I can gouge out your eyes if you try anything. Look, I know you can probably see everything right now, but if you can believe it, I'm not in the mood for attempts at flattery."

"I really _don't_ believe that," Samson said, with heavy sarcasm.

Isabela laughed, "Really though – where would you recommend I go to dry off?"

"I guess it depends how moral you are," Samson said thoughtfully, realizing he'd listed the options from most 'moral' to least.

"I'm one of the most damnable, slimy ladies you'd ever meet," Isabela said, "And the Qunari hate me with a burning rage that could evaporate me -so nowhere near those."

_You forgot wet._ Samson thought. "I've got to say my place houses pretty slimy types. Just me and a woman…"

"What kind of evil will I be fending away?" Isabela asked. "I smuggle and lie. That's my type of immoral."

"I do the same." Samson said, "Though add begging onto the list."

"Begging?" Isabela asked, "Why beg when you can steal?"

"Why steal when you can beg?" Samson countered.

The woman grinned. "Not _all_ types of begging are bad," she said suggestively, "What do Kirkwall nobodies do for fun around here?"

"Drink, visit brothels, be stupid," Samson said, "the usual."

"That sounds wonderful, I like that. How's the brothel?"

"Good, though I don't know any others," Samson said, "Maybe it's shit."

"You just need to know the right people," Isabela advised.

"Good," Samson said, "The woman I live with works there."

"Oooh." This caught Isabela's interest. "How is she in the sack then? I imagine she must be… above average, dealing with you… her very out of the ordinary man?"

"She's well worth your gold," Samson said, to try not sound obsessed with Faith.

"Maybe I do have some energy left after all," Isabela said loudly. She tried to push herself up but she groaned with the effort. "Who cares about sanity, it is completely overrated, isn't it? I'll spend the night at an insane beggars place. Take a leap of faith and chew down my pride once more. Come on, Isabela, think of all the warmth and hugs. Maker this is tough."

To support her Samson held out his arms and very slowly, leaning against him, she got to her feet, water dripping over the pavement as she did, every inch of her blouse clinging to her. With the movement, her satchel flung water at him.

_Oh Maker… so much see through… _

He averted his eyes feeling stupid. "Why the fuck would you wear white out on a boat?"

"I don't mind if my crew peeks," Isabela said, "or people. I don't have a crew anymore. Sometimes I even like it. Oh no, my secret's out." She put on a mock act of misery, "Poor you. You know my secret. Poor me. Stupid Isabela. What ever will I do… my clothes are soaked through and it's so COLD. Oh Maker above, why is the world such a lonesome place? And the bastards make me want to strangle myself. The ocean makes me _so_ desperate for attention and…oh Maker, WHY? Why am I at risk of hypothermia? Why?"

Samson cleared his throat. "I've seen whores less obvious than you."

Isabela grinned, still sopping wet and freezing. "Is that a dare?"

Samson smiled. "Wait until we get home. I'm sure Faith would love to meet you."

"With a name like that…" Isabela sounded enticed by it, "I think I want to meet her too."

"She's vicious sometimes," he said, "It might be a problem."

"Trust me," Isabela said energetically, "Vicious is what I live for."

He walked her home. He handed Isabela a towel to dry herself with and lent her some of Faith's dry clothes before waking her. They made tea, chatted, held each other close together under the covers to stay warm until Isabela and Faith found each other too interesting. It was too bad for Samson because he was left out of the ordeal, until he groaned and had his head under a pillow for long enough and Faith said he could join her side of the bed. The next morning once Isabela had departed, Samson asked if he'd imagined everything, and Faith assured him it was real.

The Pirate never stopped by their house again, but Faith met Isabela at work a number of times. Those Maker damned work boundaries!

* * *

The other time Samson was spotted fishing was no way near as interesting a story to tell.

One night, Warren found him. Maybe the refugee had been looking for him. Like the first time they'd met, he sat down by Samson's side.

"You've turned into a night owl?" Warren said. He had a new clothes on.

"Almost sounds like you miss me, Warren," Samson said with a shrewd grin.

"I did," the refugee said, "The kids liked you,"

"I'm not good with them," Samson said, even though those kids were technically teenagers. "'You been keeping busy?"

"I got work," he said happily.

"Paying work?"

"Helping out cleaning and odd jobs at an Estate,"

"Which one?" he asked, surprised.

"House Tethras," Warren elaborated, "A dwarf House, one has been piling on more work – plans to go away sometime next year. Knight Captain Cullen helped a great deal - gave me some suggestions and a recommendation."

"A recommendation?" Samson repeated, feeling offended. Cullen should have given him one without asking. That's what a brother would do, but Samson was reminded again that there was something holding Cullen back from helping him, a well hidden distrust. "That prick."

"That's a tad much."

"It's a charming turn of events for you, though," Samson grumbled, trying to be nice, "I don't need him."

"There's no shame in needing to rely on other people," Warren said in a fatherly tone, but the former Templar wasn't in the mood to listen.

The Fereldan seemed to know. "Good news. There's word that the Darkspawn are getting pushed back by the Wardens. My family might be able to head home soon… if there's anything left of it."

"Let's hope there is," Samson said, not knowing what he meant by the comment, but it signalled that the conversation was over.

The two didn't see each other much after that. He never did find out if Warren went back to Ferelden.

* * *

He was ready for the month to be over because it was that awful, but as it crossed into the next a woman found him one night against a wall. Since the incident with that creepy cock-loving bloke, Samson made a habit of changing his choice of wall multiple times in a night, especially if he spotted that shithead. So it was interesting a different stranger made a beeline for him.

An elf with cat-like eyes crouched down on his right. She was quite thin and despite being short, Samson suspected she was older than him. "Hello there. Are you the former Templar that disrupted one evening at The Broken Spine?" she asked.

"Didn't realize the story got around," Samson said, tired, "Yeah, it's me."

"I know many types of people," the woman said, "and I hear you're also not delighted by the methods of your employer."

This made Samson jolt awake. "You know my employer, do you?"

"Your employer and I are not friends," she said, "My name's Athenril. I work in deliveries. Are you interested in some work?"

"Yes, I am," Samson said, "I was wondering when you'd show up."

"You've made a name for yourself."

"Since when?" Samson wondered aloud, thinking he hadn't done anything useful.

"So long as a name is making the rounds, it will interest me," Athenril said with a smile.

Samson wiped one of his hands on his clothes, wet with dirt and snow from the ground, before reaching it out to her. Despite knowing he wouldn't be able to completely trust Athenril either, he couldn't help feeling overwhelmingly pleased when she shook his hand without a moment's hesitation.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Sorry for the delay. My social life and study has been keeping me very busy. Thank you very much to Flaminea and Schattenriss for proof reading.


	29. Invidia - Envy

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man or woman exposed to public scrutiny is more likely to come across stupid than clever. Samson knew this already. Mages and Templars in the Circle were often thoughtless, but it was sometimes funny. He learned another fact quickly. That people, if he dare call them human, were downright cruel…and more moronic than he could have imagined.

He had laughed about it at first, considering it ironic. _They don't understand,_ he thought. Soon his pity turned to annoyance.

"What sort of potion will you spend my coin on then?" a woman shouted one day.

"You look like you've been tossed about. You want to get wasted, mate?" another bloke said.

These comments were rare when he asked the public for money. Far more common were fake sorry looks or being ignored. Samson could understand apathetic reactions, but not insults. He remembered those as much as the kindness. The former Templar wanted to tell them the Chantry was who had done this to him, the same place these very people walked to. _He_ wasn't the one with the lyrium problem.

One evening when the ignorance became too much he told Faith about it while eating potato and leek soup.

"What I find so bloody irritating about it," Samson groused from a chair, "is that you're the real addict in this house, and yet those morons are pointing fingers at _me_. The only reason they can't tell is because you're at the Rose. I bet if you started crying from the song or something, they'd give you coin, regardless of what the reason was. It's because you're a pretty girl, and you dress nice, that's all it is."

Faith heard the song every day and spent so much coin on lyrium that they ate basically the same boring thing unless Samson went out of his way to get something else. So he did, even if it was one ingredient different, even if he added parsley or lemon or _something_, or missed breakfast to save up for something else.

"They don't know what they're missing," Faith said, with a knowing smile, "who you are doesn't mean anything to them. But if it gets to you so much, do more contract work."

Samson grumbled to himself, bitter about mercenary work. The contracts from Athenril were more suited to his interests, although he found it didn't pay as well as Meeran did. Athenril's contracts also had the problem of being infrequent. He didn't need to go asking for money so often these days, but twice to three times a week was still more than he cared for. "Terrie said she'd help me find some mages around the city later tonight," he said, "the magikers can sense each other, you know. They don't need phylacteries, so they'd be better at guessing than me. Chances are good if the parents are alright, they'll hand over some silver."

Forgetting a spoon entirely, Faith scooped up the last of the stew with her fingers. "They can't be apostates if they haven't been taken in the first place."

"Going on holiday," Samson joked, "and I've been helping Reiner out with his boat. I think he's warming up to me."

"You are appealing when you're not in a frenzy," the woman said, taking Samson's bowl and stacking it on top of hers.

"That's a shame," he remarked, "in rare instances I like it when you're mad."

Faith smirked. "You're the only one."

She awkwardly got to her feet and went to the kitchen. "Olina gave me your mail."

"That's funny; I don't think I directed them to her," Samson lied impulsively.

"She told me you were too nervous to direct them to my house, and wanted to help," she said, as the dishes were put in the sink, "For once; I thought she was smart. That's why I ripped it into tiny pieces."

"You what?" Samson gasped, getting out of his chair. Whoever it was who had written – Zoe or Phillipa – he needed the letters!

Faith peered back at him with a flash in her eyes. "Here's what's left of it."

That's when she reached down inside her satchel and pulled out an envelope. It was in one piece, although it looked like the paper had been dampened by sweat. That wasn't how shreds of paper were supposed to look. It was a trick.

"Why'd you lie?" Samson asked, reaching her and reaching forth to grab it, but Faith lifted it up high. Curse her heels.

"Why did you?"

"When I get nervy, it just happens," he stuttered out, "I don't want you to chuck me out if you turn into a jealous bitch."

He went on his toes to reach the paper, and Faith lowered it enough that Samson could grasp it, but she didn't let go. They were almost nose to nose.

"Lie to me again…" she began, face stern with conviction, "and I'll lock you in Lilley's house until you can't bear it anymore."

"I doubt it," Samson disapproved.

"You're going to underestimate me again?" Faith said. He pulled at the note and it tore slightly. Shit.

"Maybe," Samson confessed, pushing his face closer so his lips were almost on hers. She did not appear swayed by the minor display of affection.

"How can I make you less nervous?" Faith asked, "And I'm surprised _you're_ not jealous every time I go to work."

"How about stop threatening me? You _just_ did it. I get that I'm a bit of a whinger, but you're scarier. Just tell me to stop whinging, don't bloody threaten to lock me in a room in case it's for fun. Besides," he changed the subject before she could interrupt, "I know you don't really like your work clients. It's just to stop the singing."

"What makes you think you're any different?" Faith questioned, pulling the letter closer, a tug of war.

Samson pondered on it with a hum. He trusted her more these days. She was only a little unhinged and had a short fuse. The times they had been free of their clothes and interlocked it may have been as a distraction, though it was a lot of fun. That out of the way, Samson found it more fulfilling than the times he'd visited the Rose in his Templar days. Accomplice she may be, although a close accomplice. The memory of her sobbing in the bath tub after their first time was luminescent in his mind, despite the faint glow of the lantern they had at the time. He had held her so long that his legs had started to go numb from being in an awkward position, though it was worth it because she eventually tired herself out from sadness and silence lulled them. Crying wasn't what he had expected would happen, though it wasn't a shadow in their history either. It reminded him of another time in the dark, when he had practically crushed Zoe's ribs from holding her so close when they had been unclothed.

Before she could retreat, Samson kissed Faith. "Because I made you cry once. That first time we made cake. I doubt you turn that wrecked at work."

Anger was the suspected response, although the woman's eyebrows raised ever so slightly. Surprise wouldn't completely encompass the expression. There was also a gentle inquisitiveness in her face, not harsh or cruel- a rare sight.

She let her grip loosen, allowed Samson to take the letter, and in true Faith style, changed the subject.

"Who is that from?" she muttered, tentatively.

He inspected the script and knew immediately. It was from his butterfly.

"Phillipa," he invented, "I mean. No. I lie. _Zoe_."

He peered at the ground feeling shameful and embarrassed, only glancing at the woman in increments.

"I am a little jealous," Faith admitted, looking just as flushed as he was, like she'd just admitted to a lie too, "but so long as you tell me the truth, I will manage whatever it is you write to each other about. And I'm sorry. Threatening people is a bad habit of mine. I'll try to eradicate it. How about you attempt to stop lying and I'll do the same with my threats?"

"Alright, thanks." Samson opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. He wouldn't believe her apology until he saw some improvement, but the same could also be said for himself. He had a chance to remedy the situation. "I'll hold you to that right now. What do you want to know?"

He scanned the page. It was a long letter. Faith stepped past him to return to the bed.

"Do you still think about pounding her?"

Samson almost sneezed from the oddness of the question. It seemed strange she would ask whether Zoe would still make him desire her. Didn't women care more about feelings, love and mushy things?

"Ehm…" he began, feeling awkward. He was about to say 'yes' when he realized he hadn't actually thought about Zoe like that for a while. The last time he had was when she'd cried over him, and Samson had wanted to comfort her rather than pleasure her for the sake of it. They were now too out of reach, so he pushed it away, like how he'd let her leave without a goodbye. His feelings were closer to sadness, forlorn regrets that couldn't be translated into the sex he was accustomed to having. "She's a sweet, kind girl, but… _no_."

There were no tempting whispers of her beauty and figure, but the spirit that resided inside. It surprised even him that his feelings for her had not faded, but thrown into a whirlpool, leaving it unrecognizable when it was pulled from the seabed, too beaten and battered by the storm.

Faith didn't react. "I need to wash up. Write back to Zoe… if you're not too frightened."

"Don't get jealous," Samson warned her, but she'd gone into the other room. As he heard the tiny tub fill with water, she returned to wash the dishes in the sink.

_Dear Samson,_

_It's my two month anniversary of being in Orlais! I felt like I might explode at first but now that I'm settling in it is becoming easier. How are you? Are the cravings making you mental?_

_I don't know what to mention first. Val Royeaux gets such a bad reputation in Kirkwall. It's out of this world. I haven't met a nasty person yet._

_The White Spire makes the Gallows look pathetic – the building is so much bigger! Imagine the height of the golden statues and times that by five. YES, five. Twice as tall as the Chantry, maybe three times. It's lit by magic so it's stunning at night. The Templars all stay on the top floor (weird, yeah, I know) – I don't like heights so I stay away from the windows, but Phillipa loves it. She talks about how it reminds her of snow back in Fereldan. I told her, 'I didn't know snow glowed' and she said 'it glitters, it's the same'. I want to prove her wrong. Thank the Maker we have a room to ourselves – at least that's like home._

_We were introduced to some the newer Templars our first night, because then we can all navigate around the Spire together. Most had trouble understanding our accents. I don't understand some of theirs either. I've been trying to teach them slang and it's so funny… and the flirting, typical! I want to know if they'd still find us attractive if we put on their accents. I think I'll give it a try._

_Knight Commander Eron directed us to Enchanter Noémi on our second day. She keeps the library spotless, but she also provides guidance and a listening ear to those who need it… which is perfect for Phillipa. Orsino filled that role by accident for Phillipa and I back in the Gallows, but Noémi has a lot more time on her hands, so Phillipa talks to her regularly. Noémi said Phillipa's trouble isn't unheard of. She had one of her own friends be made Tranquil a long time ago._

_We were given charges after we became more familiar with the place. I have two, Phillipa has one until Noémi thinks she can manage more. I don't know why I was given the arrogant ones._

_Phillipa wanted me to let you know that she is feeling "reassured" in the White Spire, and she thinks she might grow to like it here. I agree with her. The management is so much better – I wish you could see. Knight Commander Eron isn't as much of a talker as Orsino, but he's more flexible than Meredith- on par with Guylain. If only we had someone like Noémi back in the Gallows, maybe the Maddox ordeal wouldn't have happened. I wouldn't tell Cullen my secrets if I was paid extra for it! More because of Meredith though._

_Your friend,_

_Zoe_

_PS: There's another Templar here called Zoë, but they pronounce it stupid... Zo-EH, not Zoey. I'm trying to teach them the Kirkwall pronunciation so people don't get confused. Andraste burn Orlesian words!_

Samson grinned, happy that the two girls were enjoying themselves. He tried to imagine all she wrote about, the White Spire itself, the Orlesian Templars, but couldn't. Zoe was right. It was a whole other world. If the plan was going well, maybe she'd stay at the White Spire for the rest of her days. This brought back memories of her walking away in the Hanged Man, and again, Samson wished he had given her a hug or something.

Sighing, he drafted a response but hid it away in a draw. He didn't want to send it for a while so neither of them could get attached. Faith asked him why he had put it away, when he was going to send it, whether she could read it. He said that was fine. There was nothing jealousy-inducing on it anyway. If anything perhaps all the fun Zoe was having would be jealousy-decreasing. As Faith looked over it, she said if Samson hid letters away it would look very suspicious. "Yeah, suppose so," he agreed. Then attempting to be more honest, Samson found it irritating that Zoe _was_ enjoying herself. She made Orlais sound like the Golden City.

A temptation for the blue interrupted his foggy images about glittery snow. The triggers were becoming increasingly apparent. There was something about feeling isolated that bothered him. The annoyance was strange. He was used to being alone and weird. Meeran might have been right about his weakness being abandonment. The thought of Meeran being right irritated him even more.

So he got changed into armour, slid the old sword Terrie let him keep to his side and left the house without saying good evening to Faith, too desperate to get away from his mind.

* * *

Samson did strength and fitness training along the Wounded Coast, which was a great excuse to visit the mages in the cave. As he entered, his palms were sweaty and shaking from anxiety. The cravings were like a bear trying to rip him apart. One could only fight a deadly animal for so long before kneeling over in defeat. Samson was so close to doing that. The other half of him was tempted to run home. He was internally kicking himself for not asking for lyrium before he left, even though he'd left in a rush to abandon that option.

A few minutes in Samson found Decimus dangling Grace upside down a number of meters in the air, deadpan and concentrating hard, as though this was a test. The bearded mage looked proud of himself.

"You kids having fun?" Samson probed, dragging his boots through the sand deliberately to distract himself.

_Think about the sand, the boots, get out of the head, fuck off thinking about lyrium. _

"Always," Grace said shortly, her brown ponytail shooting to the ground like a spear, peering over at Samson with a flushed face, "Why are you doing that with the sand?"

"Did you get hurt?" Decimus asked, concerned.

"Nah," Samson shrugged, but he didn't know how to explain his withdrawal to any of them, "Bored."

Any mention of lyrium would give his Templar status away, so he didn't talk about that, not until Decimus informed him the timing was right. Still disconnected from himself, Samson dragged his boots some more, his ankles aching.

Next he found the others he didn't remember the names of, but they were talking about whether Andraste was a real person or not.

Samson took some deep breaths, as he tried to imagine the warmth that he'd feel if he drank some lyrium. Alain was reading a book against a wall in the next section and Terrie was organizing herbs into piles.

"Samson, good evening," the young lad said.

"What you forcing into your brain?" Samson wondered, tilting his head.

Alain closed it. "It was discovered the other day in one of the tunnels," he said, "It is about sailing and navigating oceans."

"Useful," Samson pointed out.

"Yes, if you would like to explain it that way." Alain sounded like he found the book more a liability. "Terrie, you told me to remind you."

The mage gave a brief smile out of politeness. "Hello, Samson." She turned to Alain, "Can you put these in my spot?"

She gathered the herbs in her hands and passed to her friend, who left shortly after. Meanwhile, Samson needed to fidget. He took the sword out of the sheath and practiced simple blocks and strikes.

"Let's go," Terrie said, stepping over rocks to get to the main path, covered in a jacket which looked like something Lilley might wear. Like with all the mages in this cave, without their staffs and robes they were indistinguishable to other people… which was how it should be.

Terrie had to step faster to keep up with Samson because she was shorter. She appeared a little unnerved to be out of the cave, her cat-like eyes bright and cautious.

"Are you nervous?" he wondered.

Terrie nodded. "I haven't even seen Kirkwall yet."

"None of it?" Samson replied, but the surprise he had didn't reach his voice.

"I didn't feel safe going on my own, or with the others," Terrie pointed out, "When we arrived we went around the city to avoid people."

They didn't speak, but observed their surroundings, until a Guard came around – someone Samson recognized.

"Corwin?" he clarified, surprised it had taken this long to run into his old friend. The Guard looked the same, stern faced and in need of a haircut, accompanied by Brennan, but with the lack of light they were only visible when they got closer.

"Samson!" Brennan said happily, "The Maker _is_ good. You're alive!"

"Why does everyone think I'm dead?" Samson blurted out, feeling slightly offended.

"The other Guards are… negative," Corwin chimed in. "Nabil swore some lady was going to murder you for losing house keys?"

"Err, no," Samson said blankly, though he wouldn't put that past Faith if it had been entirely his fault.

"Is this a friend of yours?" Brennan asked, giving a wide smile to Terrie, placing her hands on her hips. Terrie's purple tinged lips made them look black in the moonlight.

"Naomi," he answered for her, using the very first name he could think of. "She's from Solle, visiting for a few months."

"How fascinating. Antiva, is that right? It's supposed to be so extravagant there," Brennan said, "How do you know each other?"

"I got lost trying to find the market place," Terrie said, "and he just happened to be around. I have a bad memory so Samson walked me there."

"That's one change. Samson can walk now," Brennan said, "You should have seen him before. It was like he was possessed at different times." The Guard imitated the shaking and jerking but it was a horrible impression. Looking back at Samson playful, she added, "Remember you almost tripped me over on this patrol?"

"No," he replied honestly. "How's work anyway?"

"Guard Captain Ewald stepped down a week ago," Corwin finally answered before Brennan did .

"Yeah, too many disagreements with Seneschal Bran apparently," Brennan dismissed the thought, before Samson could react.

"Who's the new Guard Captain?" Terrie tried to join in on the conversation.

"Jeven," the two Guards answered with tiredness.

"That's not a good sound," Samson said.

The two Guards looked at each other and shrugged.

"He's weird," Brennan said, "I can't put my finger on it, all stoic and serious."

"Efficient, though," Corwin countered.

_Efficient yet stoic_… it sounded an awful lot like MEREDITH.

If there was any chance he could return to the Guard, it had immediately lost its appeal. With that, the Guards pulled themselves away and Samson felt reassured. It didn't seem anybody knew he had joined the Red Iron, and therefore they couldn't suspect him of anything. The man walked a number of steps away until he realized Terrie was no longer with him.

"Madam?" he asked, looking behind him.

Terrie was frozen, her ankles shaking, as if she'd been victim to an ice spell.

He approached her. "Something got your tongue?"

"You were with… _those_ people?" she mouthed, looking horrified.

"For just over a week," Samson spat, feeling unhappy to be grouped into a box, "so what?"

"How can we trust you?" Terrie whispered, trying not to speak too loud, "Who _are_ you, Samson? Are you going to turn on my family?"

"I just lied for you," Samson hissed, "If I was going to turn on you, I'd have done it already."

"Why haven't you then?" the mage asked.

The man paused. "Templars guard mages, Guards protect the citizens, but no one _protects_ your people." He met her eyes, and realized he'd stopped fidgeting sometime recently, "no one gives them a voice, a chance at being a person, but someone should. So I will."

It was like Terrie and Samson had a staring contest then, trying to outdo the other. Then the woman gave up and continued walking to the city. Even if businesses were supposed to be shutting in an hour there were still plenty of people.

"Want to eat somewhere?" Samson said, peering up at Lowtown buildings. He didn't want to eat at the Hanged Man tonight, or any tavern. However, he needed her to trust him, and given Terrie was going to help him find mages, she needed to concentrate. She'd need food, and if someone wanted to get a good impression, a tourist was to utilize the upper class section.

Terrie looked like she almost had a heart attack, but he took her to a little place in Hightown – the cheapest joint there (but still bloody expensive), called _Too Far East_, although Samson was quite certain the door was pointed north east. He had walked past it many times when he'd been begging, too tempted by any thought of food. Samson reached in his pocket. He'd given Faith enough coin for lyrium. The rest was free reign, but Terrie stopped him with a harsh voice. "Can we go in there?"

She observed the brass letters, solicitous.

"Why wouldn't we?" Samson showed her the silver from his pocket. "I got enough coin."

"That's not what I mean." Terrie shook her head, "In _Antiva_…" she emphasized the word to indicate Starkhaven, "You have to dress nice to go in those places."

"I haven't had a problem before…" Samson was about to finish his sentence, but stopped, considering if Terrie had a point. He hadn't eaten here, but he'd never been refused entry in the past, "It's not like we're about to raid the place."

Even if Samson had, the rules shouldn't apply if he could behave like a human. He wasn't a criminal; he'd sometimes done criminal things… for good reason. Just like he wasn't a pathetic _addict_, he only pathetically used lyrium to survive. In the Guard and as a Templar he could go anywhere and be respected.

He was reminded of what some strangers had told him over the past few months about his drugged up appearance and felt annoyed.

"We don't look _bad_." Samson tried to assure himself more than her, feeling self-conscious.

"We don't radiate elegance, either," Terrie corrected. "I'm not fond of being sneered and spat on. Let's go somewhere else."

"I want to ask them," Samson said, heading for the entrance.

"No!" Terrie grabbed his arm and tugged, "You don't have to. Just look in the window."

"I go to a restaurant for food, not to gloat about clothes," Samson disagreed. Before Terrie could utter another word, a waiter reached the entrance, his clothes vibrant and opulent.

"Good evening," he said with what looked like a forced smile, "What can I do for you?"

Samson cleared his throat. "Does your restaurant have a dress code?"

"Yes," the waiter answered. He looked like a decent enough bloke, cleanly shaven and dapper.

Terrie tugged on his arm again.

"Can we get a table?" Samson asked, when no other dress code question sounded good enough in his head.

"I'm sorry to say, but no," the waiter said, "The dress code is very particular. The quality of the fabrics and how well maintained they are must reach a certain standard. They are not my rules. I apologize, but I can suggest bars or taverns."

"I have coin," Samson said, "There are free tables in there. You saying you'd rather be sent home early from there not bein' enough customers?"

"_Samson_…" Terrie groaned, pulling harder at his arm.

"I'm sorry, sir," The waiter repeated, "I can't do anything about it – would you like me to pass on any comments to the manager?"

"Yeah," Samson grumbled, "Tell your boss they've got their priorities wrong and are a prejudice-"

"Your restaurant looks lovely!" Terrie interrupted him, "Sorry to bother you. We'll be going now."

"Naomi!" Samson shot back, glaring at her.

Terrie shook her head vigorously, mouthing 'No.', then she gave a false smile to the waiter and didn't talk again until they were way out of earshot. Terrie might have a point. Hightown was full of snobs, but didn't they want to become bigger snobs by taking everybody's money?

"They definitely won't let you in now, even if you were better dressed," the mage muttered to herself, "Let's go to a street vendor."

"We don't have those here," Samson explained, still fuming at the restaurant's stupid rules, "the closest to street vendors we have are at markets, and those are only open in certain places at particular times."

"MAKER!" Terrie swore. The outburst was surprising.

* * *

They went to the Hanged Man, the usual. Samson ordered a bowl of stew for the mage and a small baked custard pie for them to share, almost to expiate for the stress he'd caused her earlier. Food aside, the former Templar couldn't deny the two of them looked weather beaten and miserable. The mage ate a mouthful of stew and seemed stunned, like she'd forgotten how to eat.

Samson didn't feel like talking, so pushed a glass of water towards her.

Terrie nodded and swallowed. "Pardon me," she said, "I worry that I won't be able to stomach real food when I get it."

"Sorry about back there," he muttered, "People irritate me."

"I'm used to it," Terrie said, sipping her water, "but you're not. Want stew? I won't be able to eat it all. My stomach won't let me."

"Take it back home," Samson said. He picked up a spoon and scooped off some pie, but when he ate it he felt no pleasure. The flavour was muted, just like his withdrawal even when he had no physical symptoms. He remembered Zoe and what she had said about cravings being like wanting custard tarts. She was wrong. It wasn't the same at all.

Samson let his head fall onto the table and looked sideways to the other patrons.

"Are you not feeling well?" Terrie inquired.

"I can't taste anything," Samson said blankly, and the mage went silent for a few moments. It wasn't clear when she spoke if she understood.

"You…can't taste anything," she repeated, with a hollow look, swallowing some more stew, "is there something wrong with your stomach?"

The man sighed, feeling his ear rumble from the noise and boots of everybody passing him, "There's something wrong with my tongue," he said, "and my brain, but that isn't the real tragedy."

"I can't think of anything worse than not being able to taste such a scrumptious pie." Terrie almost sounded fearful.

"My heart is fraudulent," Samson said with a voice dead as a street corner at midnight, "It doesn't beat how it used to, pumps someone else's blood, but I don't know where it went."

He wondered if the _voices_ stole it, if the sneaky bastards changed it, tampered with it, and put it back. Maybe the choir had done this to Faith too. Her feelings were no longer her own, she'd thrown them to flames when the lyrium army forged a crown. Ordering them was a tough job, one that required sacrifices. Samson didn't want to know if that idea was true, though couldn't explain it any other way. He heard slurping, and looked up to see Terrie taking time sipping the stew from her spoon.

In the distance he heard a rumbling, an incoming storm that was a craving, and no amount of bracing softened the blow. Samson wished he could curl up in a bed, sleep and forget about his profound emptiness in his heart. Annoyed at the feeling, he forced himself upright and ate more custard pie, but his taste buds wanted something else. The lyrium was the most magnificent liquid, and perhaps if he poured it on the pie he'd be able to taste the custard.

He chewed instead, hard, his teeth bashing against each other, his body tightening with unease. Chew, swallow, repeat, and no amount of pretending it was lyrium made any difference.

Terrie was looking at him with judgement, with distain. _That_ look. He knew it like he'd memorized lyrium's scent. She knew he was not right, knew his heart was empty, and she would not care that he was suffering, just like those idiots who insulted him without taking any time to learn who he was.

"What's so funny?" Samson muttered, sipping at water, but it was a terrible substitute. He needed the lyrium. He needed the blue, wanted it right now. There was no distraction great enough to stop it, nothing that was here. Right now, if Faith was in this tavern, he'd think of lyrium as he took her in his grasp, like he did sometimes, unable to push it away. It was a crime that she ceased to exist when he wanted it, a tragedy that the physical world lost meaning, like the very mage sitting opposite him. Even knowing this, the feeling persisted.

"Nothing," Terrie said, pushing her bowl away, "I'm not able to finish this, sadly, but it was so lovely. Do you truly think they'll let me store it?"

Samson shrugged. "I don't know."

"Can you ask them?" Terrie said, shying down, "I'm too scared I'll make a mistake."

All caring for her had disappeared. She didn't exist, the lyrium was more important. He was running on pure impulse now, and when irritated this was a disaster.

"No."

"What's with the attitude?" the mage asked.

"What attitude?" Samson asked, but he knew exactly what she was talking about.

"You're acting like my friends," Terrie said, defensive, "when their hunger turns them into different people." She paused. "Maybe you should finish my stew."

"Fuck stew!" he yelled, "Bleedin' food isn't the answer to everything! Is everyone in Starkhaven rich and fat then? Do they just stuff their selfish faces whenever life isn't smiling at them?"

Terrie looked terrified, perhaps of others listening, and she took some of the soup with her spoon. "I think you're getting Antiva mixed up with Starkhaven again, you're so forgetful sometimes. Blessed Maker, how many times do I have to remind you?"

The patrons in the Hanged Man continued to talk amongst each other.

Samson pushed the plate toward her. "I don't want to ask them either. I've dealt with enough rejection today. Put the pie in a cloth and let's get out of here."

That's when Terrie sculled the rest of the soup. She did it even knowing she'd vomit it up five minutes later, but fortunately the trees outside the tavern and not the pavement were defiled. Samson patted her back more forcefully than he meant to, and despite his irritation, not sitting in one spot helped. So long as he could move, it prevented him from going over the edge. Still, he wanted to give up. The lyrium was the easier option. When he got home, he would take some. He'd take it without asking. He'd fight Faith to get it. Maybe he'd pretend the withdrawal was about to kill him and scare Faith into giving it up. Threatening to beat her would probably do it, too… or insult her until she broke into smaller pieces.

_Cursed Andraste… what is the matter with me? _

Tears filled his eyes. He couldn't do such horrid things. That was the work of a true criminal, someone who deliberately hurt others, like Meeran or the Carta. This curse was not what he wanted, and yet….

_I can't do this_. Samson thought. He was getting so desperate he didn't want to go through all the effort of fucking her, even if the distraction had a fair chance of success. It was all so exhausting. He needed Faith's wisdom and advice, not her body.

"Thanks for… paying for it," Terrie said wearily, trying to stand up straight.

"I don't care," Samson dissented, "Where would you like to start walking?"

"Just along streets," Terrie said, "and I really hope you'll stop being so mean. We're meant to be working together and I am _this_ close to crying."

She pinched her fingers together so close it was like there was no gap to represent a period of time.

Samson only grumbled in response. So what that she had vomited? It was her fault. The acidic smell made his stomach churn even more, but at least the mage had pie in her satchel now.

* * *

Whether it was because the two of them were too upset, or there simply wasn't any safe means to have a conversation about anything without giving their positions away, the two walked in silence until Terrie approached a door and knocked. Samson tried to squish his thoughts about lyrium as much as possible and remember what he'd planned to say.

"Who in the Maker's name is up at this hour?" said a loud voice, and the door opened. A young man of maybe 16 was standing in the doorway, "Who are you?"

"Sorry for uh, disrupting your night," Samson struggled to form a sentence, leaving unusually long gaps between words, "My name is Samson and this is my friend, Naomi. We are not connected to any authority and would like to talk to you about something. It won't take long. Are your parents around?"

"Sleeping," the boy mumbled, "Why?"

"Is there anybody in this house," Samson lowered his voice, leaning closer to the boy's ear, "who would appreciate departing this city silently, safely and secretly?"

The kid's eyes widened in either horror or intrigue, maybe both, and he stepped back to let them inside, making sure the door was bolted when it shut behind them.

"Wait there a moment," he said, stepping away quietly, "I'll see if I can wake them up."

Samson peered at Terrie, who didn't look as pale in this lighting. She was smiling.

* * *

_Author's Notes:_ Sorry about the delay. I am hoping the next chapter won't take so long to upload. I hope you enjoyed it.

Special thanks to Flaminea for proof reading. She is going on a hiatus from fanfiction land so this is the last of my chapters she will be proof reading for a while. I am extremely grateful for her help in being a beta for this story throughout Part 2, and also assisting with my other story By the Blood of the Elder One.

Schattenriss has generously agreed to beta the next section, and try catch up on the story in the meanwhile.


	30. Merso II - Plunge

The teenager returned five minutes later with his mother and father behind him. Like most in this part of Kirkwall, they were incredibly thin, and looked exhausted, in fraying dressing gowns and hair sticking up at odd angles from resting against their pillows. The house was barren with not much inside in this room except a set of drawers, a mismatched table and chairs.

"My boy says you suspect someone in the house needs to get out of the city?" the woman said, with a distrusting look. She had a rather masculine, broad jaw.

"Samson and Naomi, was it?" The father approached them both and reached out a hand, which they shook in turn. "Jeffery, and that's Marie."

"Good evening," they both replied.

"I sense that someone in the house has magical power," Terrie explained, slowly, "We are here to offer a means out of the city. I could be wrong – but we thought we'd introduce ourselves just in case."

Samson had never doubted Terrie's ability to find mages, though the way she said it made it sound like a huge risk. Perhaps it was. If these parents were not interested, they could easily get in trouble. Maybe he had become so accustomed to risk that this one did not faze him.

"I have magic," the boy spoke up, "I'm Hayes. I have been moving between relatives I live with every few weeks to keep hidden from the Templars, depending on what they are doing. I'm sick of it, personally."

Marie's eyes flashed. "How can you trust these people so easily? They could take you away and murder you!"

"We have no intention of that, ma'am," Samson said. He kept rubbing his fingers together in his pocket because he needed to fidget. Of course, a murderer would say that too. He tried to push that logic from his mind.

"Someone comes to help us, and you push them away!?" Hayes retorted. "Are you serious, mother?"

"Another time, another place, dear," Jeffery countered. He sighed wearily, "What experience do you two have in transporting people?"

"I recently had to flee my home city," Terrie said, "I won't go into the circumstances, although I travelled in a group and I was very capable and proficient with directions and combat."

"Transporting various goods is part of my job," Samson said, his thinking sluggish, "I used to be a Templar and … worked in the Guard for a little bit, long enough… so I know my way around Kirkwall very well. Terrie has plotted out a number of routes outside of Kirkwall to the direction of Starkhaven. We will go together, and help Hayes along as long as we need to until we can secure passage to another city. I know people who know people, that kinda rubbish. I have spent a… few weeks, yeah… gathering names of those we can approach for help. If you all agree, tonight we can talk you through plans, and where we would travel, and confirm with those we will bring Hayes to, so we can come back in a week or so and be ready to leave."

The looks of skepticism on the parents' faces at his slow expression were bothersome.

"If anything was to go wrong on the night, we will transport him back here and refund you the coin," Terrie assured them.

The parents looked at each other, distrusting. Hayes seemed sold on the idea, "I'm in! How much should I pack?"

Marie, Dead Maker bless her, started to cry. "I… suppose this is better than the alternative. Oh, but it's too soon!"

"It is very sudden," Jeffery agreed.

"By the void, make up your bloody mind!" Samson snapped. The parents and Hayes stared at him. It took longer than usual for Samson to figure out that he had half shouted this, instead of curse it under his breath. After all, there were still details to determine and more chances to persuade them.

"Samson, don't be so rude," Terrie hissed, and then, "I am so sorry about that. He isn't usually like this. He just… did you forget to take your herbs?"

Samson glared at Terrie, unsure of what she was getting at. It was unnerving that she'd guessed he was lacking something. He _wanted_ lyrium, but it's not like there was some lying around… and it wasn't a life or death situation. She didn't know about his lyrium consumption yet and he didn't want her to. If she responded badly, which was very likely, his partnership with her may end tonight. "I don't know. Did I?"

"Are you capable of discussing this tonight?" Marie asked, "I don't feel comfortable with you speaking this late if you are not confident."

"Is there anything we can get you?" Jeffery asked, "Do you have the flu?"

"No, I've got something called an attitude problem," Samson shot back, very condescending. He groaned, "Sorry."

"Can we have some privacy for a moment?" Terrie asked.

"Certainly," Jeffery said, "I think it will be good if we all talked separately. Hayes? Can you lead our guests to the dining room?"

"We are immensely sorry about this," Terrie said again, as Hayes guided them away. They crossed into the next room, which had a few cabinets. For where it lacked books, it had trinkets, sewing materials and fabrics. This room was also warmer, as the embers of a dying fire were crimson red.

"Hey, I don't care. It's my parents that are throwing a fit," Hayes said, calmly, "You seem trustworthy to me."

"Nice one keeping hidden from the Templars for so long," Samson admitted, trying to take the grumpiness out of his tone.

"Thanks," Hayes sighed, "I'm sick of it. This isn't any way to live. Even if you guys made a mistake, I think you could help me enough that I could figure it out."

Judging from what he had heard from Terrie, Samson thought that this kid was overly optimistic. "Have a chat to your folks. We won't be long."

The kid didn't leave. Hayes lowered his voice. "What are the herbs for? You can tell me. I'll keep a secret."  
Terrie and Samson glanced at each other. Screw the kid, he debated whether to tell her… if he didn't and there were problems later, he could be blamed, and no one would be able to help him. Lying wasn't going to help him in this situation. Taking his chances, he reluctantly replied into the tense silence, "Lyrium."

Tearing his gaze away from Terrie, Hayes smiled as if he understood the ordeal. "Oh yeah? Rightio. I'll leave you to it."

They shut the door, which seemed to get jammed before it could completely shut. After waiting for footsteps to dissipate, Terrie approached the glow of the fire and removed a vial from her robes. It was short in shape, with a large bobble, almost like a candle holder. There wasn't much left, barely a mouthful. Watery blue had separated from grungy silver, which was thicker in texture, though this dissipated when Terrie swirled the mixture around. Now it was a greyish blue. If she had never drunk it before, he wouldn't have thought it was lyrium.

"I lied about the herbs so the parents would be sympathetic," Terrie said slowly, "Lyrium isn't a herb though. Was that a lie?"

It was the tone of voice of someone who suspected the truth. Samson tried to calm himself. "Look, it's true, but I didn't want you to know. It's a bad habit I've picked up. I don't want to talk about it now."

Terrie's mouth twitched in trepidation. "I wondered if you were addicted to something, though I didn't want to presume. Now I'm scared."

It was obvious why this revelation would frighten her. She wasn't supposed to know now. Trying to keep to the point, Samson said, "Is it that obvious?"

"Yes," Terrie said.

"Blight take it," he cursed, his worst fears being realized, "How can I hide it?"

"Uh… I don't know," she said.

"Are you trying to tell me it's _really_ obvious?"

"It doesn't matter. Let's talk about it another time," she rushed. Apparently still afraid, the mage grasped one of his hands and placed the lyrium in his palm. "I always keep some on me for emergencies. You should take it, but on the condition I get an explanation another night."

"This isn't an emergency!" he snapped, "I'm not about to die."

"No- but you can't keep your temper under control and this is important."

Samson growled, and remembered what happened to Faith when she took lyrium designed for mages. There was no reason for him to be this agitated. Terrie was trusting him to drink her lyrium. This was a positive sign. "I don't think I can take it."

"Why not?"

Cue the excuses - "Firstly, it's yours, and-"

"What's wrong?"

"I know someone whose blood vessels burst and split open in her neck from drinking lyrium for a mage."

Terrie's face fell. "I did not consider that. Decimus buys our lyrium. I don't know who from, or what's in it, but it works."

"Yeah, it works for _you_." Samson felt despair fill him. "Why can't we go back out there? I don't need it. I can keep my mouth shut."

"No," Terrie said, "You're acting out of character, and you're not concentrating. If we're going to gain anyone's trust, you need to drink it."

"You trust me. They can too."

"I have known you for longer than they have, and I've never seen you this cranky."

"I don't need it," Samson strained. He didn't know why he felt so against lyrium now it was right in front of his face. Half an hour ago he would have snatched it out of her hands. "Andraste's corpse, Terrie, I'm in a rotten state."

"This is why I am suggesting –"

"What am I going to do? This cycle is going to keep happening to me," Samson said quicker, his discomfort rising, "Take it? Don't take it? No one can make up their minds. It's all- do this, do that, don't do that. Which one is it? No one's happy with anything I do. _I_ don't know what to make of it. I don't care what they think anyway. To Andraste's grave with them, but I can't make my mind. I'm never going to be able to get off this stuff. Shit, I'm gonna be like those nutters from the Gallows textbooks. I'm gonna go mental! I'm _fucked_."

When Faith had her panicked frenzy the first time he had met her, and when he'd seen others behave similarly, he couldn't say he understood the feeling they were having. Now, he was quite sure he could. He started to feel light headed and like he didn't have enough oxygen, which was ridiculous because he was breathing a lot faster than normal.

"Samson – Samson – _look here_," Terrie looked hurt. She raised a hand and slowed his movement by magic. It was a strange, unnatural sensation. "I know you don't want to feel reliant on it, but this is stupid. Do you want to stop asking for money in the streets? While you're working you need to use it. Leave the cravings for a time when it doesn't matter."

"Like I haven't heard that before."

"If the worst happens, I have healing spells?" The mage offered, raising her hands, "and these people may be able to help."

"Fine," Samson snapped. He took the vial. It was only a quarter full. Despite Terrie's words of comfort, a churning of discomfort remained in his gut. His palms sweaty, he opened the vial and drank it slowly. This lyrium, whatever was in it, went down like ice cold alcohol. Then… nothing seemed to happen.

"I think it worked," Samson said, uncertainly.

Terrie merely looked at him for a few seconds. "I'm going to ask if the others are ready to continue talking. Are you going to be alright?"

Slowly, Samson felt his worries draining away like all his problems had been solved. "Yeah. Thanks for the blue. How can I repay you?"

"By being nicer," Terrie suggested.

While Terrie talked through with Hayes and his parents where they planned to travel, Samson wrote notes from some parchment he had brought in a satchel. The pricing offered was half the amount that Athenril would pay him for a similar task, which he assured them was actually much better for them than it was for himself and Terrie. They were ripping themselves off by their own generosity – but business is business. Low prices were necessary, temporary evils. The coin would only cover food for Terrie and Samson once payment had been given to the contact Terrie had in mind. The contact was a man at a settlement half of the distance to Wildervale, 12 hours on foot outside of Kirkwall. They would hopefully meet the contact half way, at 8 hours within the mountain range. From there, the next stretch of passage should be to Wildervale, then to Nevarra, not going anywhere near cities like Tantervale where law enforcement was considered the strictest in the Marches and had a strong Chantry influence. The parents and Hayes agreed to the drafted plan, provided a deposit of a quarter of the price. Samson said he would send letters to the contacts they'd mentioned, and be in contact when he heard word what the plan would be. Hayes was encouraged to improve his fitness to tackle the distance and Vimmark Mountains, which the kid groaned about. His parents thought escaping Kirkwall was a sufficient incentive to exercise and didn't tolerate his attitude.

The effects of the lyrium, it turned out, took half an hour to settle in. When he travelled with Terrie to a number of other houses she suspected housed mages, he had an upset stomach, a shooting pain down his neck and received a rather ferocious bloody nose, but it was a minor setback compared to what Faith had endured. Terrie healed it enough that it wasn't distracting him. He still wouldn't be thrilled at the opportunity to consume mage lyrium, no matter how desperately he felt he needed it. To avoid drawing attention to themselves, Terrie and Samson approached two other houses in separate sections in Kirkwall, and only one of them divulged interest. The other said to come back when they'd succeeded getting one mage out of Kirkwall, and stopped being _naïve do-gooders_. It was worth taking the lyrium, he decided then, because otherwise he would have said something like "Is a person who's murdered mages a do-gooder?".

Terrie and Samson didn't speak much on the way back to the cave, although Samson promised he would explain the lyrium situation when he felt up to it. Tomorrow night, they'd hopefully have more luck with mages in Kirkwall. The more they did it, the more they'd network with more people who could be useful in this work. As he returned from accompanying Terrie to the cave, Samson realized they hadn't been caught, despite there being near misses, it felt like he'd conquered the world- or outsmarted it at the very least. From the faint light, it was probably close to when the first Chantry service would take place. All this Chantry business was stupid. He hoped he could fall asleep before hearing the chimes of the bells. For now, it felt like they'd beaten the Chantry though Samson didn't feel like he'd crushed his desire for lyrium. Terrie's dodgy lyrium had only done so much.

* * *

All this time he'd held back from approaching the cabinet. Faith's lyrium stores were even more sacred than her mirror. He'd remained loyal to Faith by keeping away from it, but now he had to betray and cheat her by tasting the blue she hid away.

The anger and emptiness was unbearable, pulling and tugging at his very being. He couldn't take it anymore. The time had arrived to break her trust and enrage her. Within a swirling haze of neuroticism, he tried to keep quiet as he opened the front door, though the jingle of keys was probably louder than he thought.

The sweet lady had left the lantern flickering on the bedside table so he could see… where the lyrium was. Still, he knew what to do. He had waited too many hours for this.

As gently as he could, he snuck over to Faith's cabinet, slowly placed his finger prints on it, and picked out a vial.

His guilt cut into him like blades at each of his major arteries.

Faith would understand. Faith knew he'd tried his best.

The collision between both forces stung.

Samson took off the cap and drank three mouthfuls. It was so impulsive the room seemed to disappear; there was only him and his blue. The world felt surreal and dreamlike, where nothing was quite in the right place for the normal reasons.

Faith told him to ask if he was feeling like this. He couldn't ignore her. The more he drank, the worse trouble he would be in. Samson frowned.

_This whole situation is shit. _

An odd sound fell from his lips, but he silenced himself when he peered upon Faith's resting form, standing over her side of the bed. She was laying right side down, how she usually did, chest rising and falling slowly, but her eyes appeared as Cullen's did in those long nights when Samson hadn't fallen asleep first. It was the sound that distracted him, the noise that made him think she was awake. It racked his brain of bad memories, something from the Fade, a clicking, the sound of bones becoming disjointed. Her jaw was moving infrequently, unpredictably and without a pattern, her teeth hostile, nearly shattering under pressure of how they grinded together.

He had finally found a sound he hated more than whimpering or snoring. This reminded him of lifeless bodies, nightmares and loneliness. He had heard it before, though it was all the worse now.

Bracing himself to be punched in retaliation, Samson moved closer, put the cap back on the vial, placed it in front of Faith, squeezed her shoulder and shook her awake vigorously.

"Why'd you wake me?" she mumbled.

The man pointed to the bed, where the lyrium lay. Like it was a grenade, she returned it quickly to Samson's hands.

"Put it back," she said. In the dark, the blackened lines on her face reminded him of the pattern on Terrie's face.

"No," he answered, feeling much better with it with her than not.

"_Put it back_," she repeated, icily. The memory returned of when she had hurt him, and Samson brought his fingers panicked to his neck. The image was strong, but not enough to take over. He couldn't have her react this way. She said she'd try to help and be reasonable.

"I don't want to," he said, "Faith, stop being cranky! I need you! Help me!"

He sounded desperate, even more upset than any time he'd asked for coin. This form of begging had an extra layer of vulnerability, like standing over the edge of a cliff where the rocks beneath him were about to dislodge.

The woman seethed for a moment, groaned and sat up, rubbing her eyes, "What happened?"

"You know…" Samson said, shiftily, feeling stupid.

"Did you wake me up for nothing?"

"No." His fingers twitched, maybe his whole body shook. Then his speech became a distorted mess of emotion, "I wanted to take it so much, part of my wretched soul wanted to hurt you."

Faith peered at the lyrium in Samson's hands. "I know that feeling." She paused, "More though. I've acted out on it. I convinced myself I was stronger. It worked for a time. Next thing I know, I'd broken somebody's arm and barely realized what I'd done."

"Ewan?"

The woman nodded grimly. "Nothing can take back what I did. It is cruel –give it a few years and you develop a tolerance to the dose you took to avoid hurting others…."

"What do you suggest, princess?" he said, feeling more defeated than before.

Slowly, Faith took the vial out of Samson's hands and opened it. "Let me give some to you slowly, and we can measure how much you actually need."

Not wanting to be reminded of the first time with the Carta, Samson removed his armour, put his sword away and sat on the edge of the bed. He found himself quivering when she ran her free hand through his hair, resting it on the back of his head.

"Stay still."

Samson closed his eyes so he didn't have to look at the glowing liquid, but he felt his heart jolt as the glass touched his lips and lowered an incremental amount in his mouth. He wanted to snatch it from her hands, but the thought of becoming a monster was too terrifying.

He heard Faith smirk. "You are being so obedient for your caregiver."

"Shut up."

Moments passed, and the craving lessened, but wasn't completely gone. Two more small amounts later and Samson felt calm again. He observed Faith as she looked at the bottle curiously and moved to the side of the bed to write something down, a measurement no doubt. With a clink the glass flask was in the draw. Then they went under the covers and Faith blew out the flicker of the lantern. Samson was too tired to change. The scratchy, terrible bed sheets weren't as noticeable.

"It's hard to sleep sometimes, with you trying to eat your own mouth," he remarked, and he remembered feeling sympathy for Cullen, like it was something that happened a long time ago, "Ugly dream?"

Faith groaned. "I've been grinding my teeth for years. When it gets really bad, it feels like a second skeleton is being shoved down my back."

"You know a lot about what you sound like when you sleep," he said, "Cullen used to do the same."

There was a long pause. "You miss him."

Samson wasn't sure if he smiled or frowned, "Sometimes. I don't like it."

Faith rolled over and peered into his face. "He has a good set of teeth for a man who grinds them."

"'Suppose. Wish his teeth would get wrecked," Samson said, "You're a good woman for waiting for me to fall asleep first. Cullen used to wait until I fell asleep too. Demons killed a bunch of his brothers in Kinloch Hold, tortured him too. The nightmares drove me to foolery, and they weren't even mine."

Faith gave a shrewd look, her facial weakness more apparent. "You miss him."

She repeated it, as though it meant something different this time around. Samson didn't know, but her words were not harsh. He paused for a moment, wanting to change the subject, "Do you get night terrors too?"

"Now and again," Faith admitted, "but lyrium makes it happen…less."

The woman started to poke and prod at her cheeks in a way to lessen the pain. Samson only watched, not sure how to feel or think. The markings on her face were menacing in the shadows, but he thought they looked pretty.

"Who were your friends in the Circle?" Samson asked. He had an intuitive sense that Faith would answer, and she did.

"You're testing my memory," she said, "I had very few. I got along with my roommate's brothers better than I did her… until they turned into my worst enemies. "

"'Cause they let you down?"

"Uh huh. Soon after my cycles started, I lost my virginity to one of them. We couldn't foresee developing feelings for anybody in future and we both wanted to know what it was about, so we agreed to try it as a passionless experiment. It was a one off spectacle. I didn't' care for it. I fell for Rebecca years later and when he caught us, he was extremely jealous. Once I left the Order, he spread rumours about me. His brother stopped talking to me altogether. I was furious about it at the time, but I don't think he wanted to look like he was taking a side."

"It is a cruel joke that friends can become enemies in the first place," Samson said, feeling disturbed by this revelation.

"It is not even a joke," Faith said, "because it is not funny to anybody. It's just a nightmare turned real."

Samson didn't want to think about betrayal anymore. He didn't want to talk about his friends, if he could even call them that anymore. He felt closer to Faith than he did to them these days, which was saying a lot as he had only known her a few months.

"Faith."

"Hmm?"

"I failed again," he said, "How can you lay here with someone so weak?"

Samson assumed she wasn't going to answer, though she moved closer to him. At least, he could feel her breath on his face.

"You're not like that…" she said.

"That's a lovely joke."

"…not to me," she finished.

He didn't like looking at her sometimes, not when she was emotionless and cold, but now was not one of those times. If she was visible, there wouldn't be ice, just like her voice wasn't ice. Honestly, he didn't know what it sounded like, and that's why he wanted to see. Samson wished he could feel comforted by her; understand what she meant about strength, because he didn't believe what he was hearing. Society said the very opposite, rejected and scorned him. He froze as she felt around for his face and found it, trailing her fingers down to his neck, tracing the scars like wishing she could make them go away. Like when he'd seen her without make up for the first time, he was completely speechless, his mind and heart focused entirely on the moment. Then her breathing became closer still, creating condensation against his face, seeming stuck there for eternity. That lyrium scent was saturating him, the very thing he fought against like a storm – the substance that was winning more times than he could. Maybe if he could show he was strong, the pull of lyrium would disappear. It was a far off dream, but it wouldn't stop Samson from trying.

Gently, so carefully he almost shook, the man let the side of his nose touch hers and waited. Still nothing, He didn't know what he wanted, except to understand. If that meant feeling her, so be it. Faith truly appeared as if she'd been hexed in place. Yet, his heart was stolen. It didn't beat how it usually did, couldn't feel how he might usually feel. Once upon a time maybe he'd feel nervous, but those times were long gone.

"Pray on your life," he whispered, but it sounded so much louder in this quiet, "I don't develop a tolerance to you, princess."

That is when their breathing ended, when the world as Samson knew had changed again, never staying still. That woman, his shelter, gave kisses that were not like before. Not desperate or hissing with fire, not unpredictable, vulnerable or sad. Very slow and quiet, like trying to make sure no one could hear, hiding away in a chamber from those patrolling outside, evading the voices that were looking for them. Like the early days of reciting songs or doing training in the Chantry walls, Samson felt like he was being protected by something much greater than himself, that the world had purpose and the walls would shield him so long as he was inside.

It was deceit. The security had been a lie, so while he blocked the falsehood from nursing his innocent misgivings, there was also a desire to revere it. This was the _dream_ Faith spoke of, that feeling of being so far removed from something honestly good.

"I already do."

The words were distorted, hushed into his ear, but Samson felt like unravelling himself. He didn't know the meaning behind her tone, rarely understood much of what she went on about anyway, but… he thought vaguely that he wanted it to make sense.

Samson cradled her face in his hands and deepened their kiss, pressing himself closer to her. Their legs gently touched. Still, he couldn't understand. He only copied her, the gentleness and kisses. He was a puppet. He had no soul. There was just this softness that he wanted to understand, this feeling that he knew was precious, but didn't fully spread around his body.

He said her name, not out of pleasure, but asking for help, and he understood a new feeling within him. It was the same as when he watched Zoe walk away. There was too much hidden inside, too much he couldn't say, a lot of sadness. Despite the fact this woman was behaving more softly than she ever had, he had never felt more alone.

"What's got you so quiet?" she murmured.

"I feel like…" he paused, and this was the only means he had to describe it, "something that used to be within me, whatever it was that made me a human, was taken away."

If she couldn't understand, no one could. But he thought that maybe she did, because she stopped kissing him and held him close instead. He became buried in her warmth and felt safe, letting his arms wrap around her too. There'd be no pleasure in this night, no passion or happy sighs, but closeness without any spoken meaning.

"I'm so sorry, luce dei miei occhi," (*_light of my eyes_) she whispered sadly, secret words only for him, "wherever your humanity was taken, mine is there too."

Her voice had an inkling of somebody stronger, someone who wasn't an addict, a person with far more personal resolve and generosity than she did now. There was almost a paternal quality about it, a presence that could fight away all demons simply by existing, reaching to his deep seated insecurities and nurturing his most repressed memories. Was this how she had spoken to her mage lover, being the very embodiment of a Knight, a valiant protector?

Trying to soothe himself, Samson closed his eyes and tried not think about what he could and couldn't feel, what he could and couldn't understand. He wished his heart wasn't stolen, a graver offense than it being damaged, for there was no means to find or repair it. Even if he only felt a fraction of what he was sure he might have back in the Circle, Samson liked being with Faith this way.

* * *

_Authors Notes:_ Thank you Schattenriss for the beta! The first scene was a new addition, though I'm glad I added it in. I hope you like the direction that the third part of Samson's story will take.


	31. Motus II - Unrest

_Author's Notes:_ Thank you Schattenriss for the beta. This first scene is new. The rest has been sitting around on my computer for months. I added some extra lines of dialogue here and there. I wonder if anyone can spot the lines that are based off DA:O. Enjoy! Please R&amp;R.

* * *

"I bet we're hurting all these trees' feelings by stepping all over their roots and kicking the ones sticking out. Really, you should have a good, hard think about that-"

"Shut up," Samson hissed, "We have told you four times already. If you can't keep quiet, unwelcome sorts will find us."

The Vimmark Mountains descended on a slope that was steep enough to need to keep paying attention to where one was treading, as many strips of bark and smaller trees had branches that stuck out at odd angles. They'd received a number of scratches on their faces already. After their legs started aching from the uphill journey their movements were uncouth. Morale had all but dissipated hours ago, though for some reason the mage they were bringing out of Kirkwall decided this was the perfect time to talk. Terrie lead the way, lessening and brightening the flame of the lantern as needed. The two mages were so pale and accustomed to the indoors that they appeared spectral.

"It's boring not talking," Hayes moaned.

"Yes, it is," Terrie acknowledged, "but we just have to do it until we get well out of the area."  
"How long is that?" Hayes said.

"Two hours, I think?" Terrie said, uncertainly, "If we have calculated it properly."

Hayes grumbled. "I'm so tired. I'm going to fall asleep if I don't keep more active somehow."

"We can't get any more active," Samson argued.

"I could hum," Hayes said brightly. "Humming helps keep me alert."

"Humming will irritate me," Samson snapped.

"What if you hum quietly?" Terrie suggested.

"I don't care if you get irritated!" Hayes retorted to Samson.

Suddenly, a numb quiet fell. By the protest in Hayes's body language, it appeared that Terrie had silenced him by magic. She flicked her fingers as if trying to remove some sticky grass and looked apologetic, like the spell was accidental. Any silence, however brief, was worthy of celebration in Samson's mind.

"Will you whisper?" Terrie inquired.

Hayes crossed his arms and didn't give any clear signal of acknowledgement until ten minutes later. After the wave-like smaller mounds on this hill evened out, Terrie removed the spell, and Hayes did as he was asked and whispered. To maintain a low volume, they walked closer together. Samson didn't like it. Any talking made him uneasy. Nights of begging aside, he wasn't used to staying up this late and he had crossed the threshold of feeling bored and sleepy. Now he marched like a Tranquil.

They entered a new thicket of trees and heard footsteps, though not early enough to evade whoever they belonged to. A thickset man with greying hair on his arms and wrinkles around his neck -or perhaps they were scars- appeared. Already it was clear by his heavy, leather garb that he was not entirely of Kirkwall origin.

"Thought I heard voices," the stranger said, "Thomas here. How are ya?"

He extended a hand. Samson half-heartedly shook it. "Good evening, sir. We're just passing through. Be out of your way in a minute."

"I heard that before," the man said, "Where are you heading?"

Likely from a lifetime of conditioning to not trust humans, Terrie seemed petrified into silence.

"Nevarra, eventually," Samson said, "I have relatives there."

_Yeah, I wish,_ he thought.

"Right. What are your names?" the man asked.

"This is Herold," Samson said, pointing to Hayes and Terrie in turn, "Nancy, and I'm Simon."

_That'll do,_ he was pleasantly surprised he could improvise at this hour.

"Are you aware that you're trampling on my plants? I own the land here."

"No," Samson said, giving a sideways glance at Terrie. If that was true, it seemed like he owned grass and weeds- not exactly a garden to get excited about.

"I am going to complain to the Guard about this and you'll have a hefty fine to pay," the man assured them, "I spent hours making this land look nice. You've ruined your mud all over it, mud from Maker knows where. It can disrupt tree growth, and crops."

Samson blinked, bewildered. He hadn't memorized everything the Guard had taught him, though he was quite sure he wouldn't be fined for something like accidentally stepping on land where trees were supposedly planted. Then again, was it worth arguing about it? They had a schedule to keep.

"How much?"

"What?"

"The fine."

"It'll be a hundred or so gold if you don't watch it," the stranger threatened.

"We were just passing through," Samson repeated, "Let us go and we'll be out of your way."

"You're still getting a fine. I will make sure they find you, make no mistake."

_Broke son of a bitch,_ Samson groaned._ 'Least when I snoop for money, I don't make a fuss about the grass. I complain about real problems, like how I don't have a consistent source of coin. _He was too tired to diplomatically discuss the matter. Unsure of what to do, he started walking away. "I can contest your fine, friend. Make no mistake."

He heard the brush of grass, and assumed Terrie and Hayes were following.

"Hold it!" Thomas shouted.

Samson didn't see, though mid-sentence the stranger was silenced. He had a dazed, disorientated expression.

"Move quick," Hayes hissed, pushing on Samson's back, "I used a memory wiping spell, but it won't last very long. We need to get out of sight."

_Clever_, the former Templar thought. He had not planned in much detail what would occur in the circumstance where a passer-by wouldn't leave them alone or believe their story. Perhaps there was a potion he could make which might mimic this effect. It wasn't wise to rely on mages to solve his bad luck, as fleeting as it may be. Finally, Hayes stayed quiet. In relief, Samson wanted to lift Terrie into the air (because she was tiny) and she could pretend that she could levitate until his arms got tired. Such a jejune gesture would likely result in terrified squeals from Terrie, so he resisted.

At the settlement half the distance to Wildervale, the man they were looking for, Ellar, was not around, although they found one of the man's friends, Iain. With a portion of the coin Hayes parents' had paid them, they discussed and secured passage from Wildervale to halfway to Nevarra. Hayes gave his thanks, though Samson was too tired to feel the impact of his work.

* * *

Terrie helped Samson with recruiting mages for three months. By then, he had reached enough people that his business could generate new work off word of mouth alone, and he didn't have to go door knocking. This gave Terrie more time to organize with her mage family how to manage living in Kirkwall. Samson went on hiatus asking Meeran for work, and reduced the amount of time in the streets – a great achievement, he thought. To fit his increased dosage of lyrium, more of his coin went toward Faith's monthly orders. The Carta didn't cause him any problems, and Samson made sure to organize his time around these appointments. This meant he could occasionally go fishing, which he didn't mind, even if it was at night and insects got him.

Where one night turned into another was clearer now he had lyrium, but sometimes he still wanted more. Even if Faith prided herself in being responsible, she occasionally found an excuse to use the lyrium beyond her own parameters.

"Don't you think this is like a funeral once a year?" Samson inquired, when the anniversary of Faith's parents' deaths arrived. She was wearing a floral dress, very unlike her, and cut the lyrium fruit cake into slices.

"What's wrong with that?" Faith asked, "Funerals are to commemorate the dead. Call it that if you want. You must find it unusual since you do not appreciate your parents."

"It's sad, is all," Samson said. Instead of turning cake batter into an excuse to be close this time, he reflected on how he felt little besides resentment for his parents.

"Yes."

"When's your birthday?"

"Some time."

"C'mon princess."

Faith pouted. "I'm old."

"You're _older_ than me," Samson corrected, "not old."

"If you are still here when my birthday comes by," Faith said, scrutinizing his expression, "I will tell you how old I am."

Like when she had invited him to make cake with her this very evening, Samson felt pleased that she wanted him around enough to make comments about future events.

On her birthday, Samson managed to make cake (and not burn it). Found cocoa to put in it too. He was proud of that. Using their lyrium like this was irresponsible. It screwed up their routine, it twisted their minds and warped their very blood, but it was worth it.

He swore on the Maker it was worth it. They splurged on lyrium, put more inside than they ever had, and within the lyrium's song, they conquered the universe, became so mixed up in each other definitions disappeared. There was no addiction, no withdrawal, just the song, and themselves.

And the song demanded they be together. Unified they would be. And Samson wanted it to be real. He felt like it was real, more so than the world he left behind. His heart was in the words of the song. He thought he knew where it had gone, but not why it was taken, or from whom.

The two were not drugged up, messed up, wrecked former Templars there. They were fulfilling an important duty. Samson listened to the song and instinctively knew what it meant. He followed its instruction with care, mimicked the lyrics with perfect accuracy, worshipped Their Queen as They did, revered her without her instruction.

On First Day he wasn't that angry man her body craved, but the protector her mind desired. Faith let it happen, melted like his brain and soul had melted. He went slower, stayed within her far longer, and she let herself be weak. She stopped trying to rule the lyrium army and forgot that they were watching. And her tears fell before she reached her first peak, and continued until she reached her second, and Samson knew he wasn't supposed to stop. She became weaker every time, looser, kinder. The lyrium told him to keep going, and so he did, breathing in her, taking in all life to stop his body from failing him. The song lured him to kiss her like how he'd wanted to kiss Zoe once, that special sort of affection, the one where fucking was too vicious.

But it was all an act. Samson was only a puppet, following lyrium's orders. He couldn't wipe away her tears like he wanted, he had to let her. Although it was something she refused to do. Faith let her sadness soak her face and neck, and drip onto her breasts. Samson couldn't question the lyrium's wisdom, even if it seemed to be making her worse.

"I want it to be real," she said, once she'd stopped crying for long enough, "Samson, why? Why can't it be real?"

He knew what she meant. This wouldn't last. Without lyrium, he was cold, distant, and spineless. Without the song, he only had ideas, ones that usually weren't useful, and the man wanted what was best for the Queen, his equally cold, distant and spineless friend. Even if he was following orders, he did it out of his strength, the light that gave him purpose.

Samson said what he always did, "This is real." Although his voice wasn't his, "I am your eyes, and you are mine. This is very real."

Faith did something she'd never done. She prayed to the Maker, begged to Him, pleaded with Andraste to make it real, practically screaming. Sometimes, looking back on the moment, he thought she was pushing against him, driving him away. She stopped believing in Him. Why did she care so much? But the voices told him to comfort her.

"Hush now," he whispered, "wherever your humanity was taken, mine is there too."

Copycat. Perfect accuracy. She listened, closed her mouth and as he came down from his high, he felt very confused. His technique became sloppy as his muscles ached and his body didn't want to move how he wanted it to.

So Faith let him fuck her. This was easier. It required very little thinking. It didn't have to graceful or elegant, only she refused to meet his eyes, not that Samson cared much for that either, but it didn't stop her from crying out his name when it was over.

Lying on the floor, while her chest rose and fell indolently, she murmured, "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't bother me," Samson said. It had felt like a meaningful experience at the time it was happening, though now he wasn't sure how to describe it.

Faith mumbled something, and spoke louder, "I experience a lot of unexpected, unwelcome feelings when it comes to you."

Samson wasn't sure what to say. "Okay," then when that seemed lacking, "My feelings are wrecked. The… I don't like that they're missing. Bit rude that they pissed off."

Faith didn't say much else.

Then it was like those times when their bodies had been screwed over by overexertion. They cleaned up in that tiny tub, too drained to eat or prepare a decent meal, too fatigued to change into night clothes. They lay in bed, keeping enough distance not to be close and said absolutely nothing.

* * *

_Dear Samson,_

_I was thinking the letter got lost on the way here because it took you so long to reply. Thank the Maker it didn't get torn up._

_My brother Jed wrote to me about how yourself and a former Templar were involved with some fiasco in my tavern. I'm assuming that was you and Faith, right? I told my brother to let it be. Please make sure it doesn't happen again. I don't want to get involved._

_My other Warden brother has 'gone missing'. It makes me so angry. I'd rather be told he was dead so I wouldn't have to be in limbo. Mental. Now it doesn't feel like the Blight is over. Everything and everyone is insane! Maybe you have the right idea - just join the crazy club and then the world will make sense._

_Phillipa has been doing loads better. She has that joie de vivre she did before. She still makes a sad face when the topic of Maddox comes up, but she doesn't become a mess over it._

_She's taken a liking to the subject of the Seekers of Truth, an almost obsessive fancy. 'It's the path the Maker has led me to,' she says. I have to admit; in theory the power has a certain appeal given all the rubbish with Meredith, an appeal it didn't have before._

_She asked Knight Commander Eron about joining, and he said she'd have to prove herself worthy over the next few months before he'll sign an application, even as she's gotten better from her emotional lapse. They don't like making Seekers from Templars unless they're especially low on numbers, which seems to be the case after the Blight. It's also kept as a sort of testament to history – a whole lot of bollocks if you ask me, but I won't complain. Seeker Lambert is going to come to the Spire to talk to potential candidates in four months._

_The only trouble is the two of us will have to withdraw from lyrium. I froze up when I was told that. I'm so scared something will go wrong. I immediately thought of you – do you think it's worth it? I don't know how to plan for it. I never imagined myself leaving the Order before now…. Phillipa has confidence it'll be fine, but I'm not sure she understands the risks. Phillipa will talk to Noémi though. I asked the Knight Commander myself and he said if the Lord Seeker deems the applicant suitable Templars go through a noviciate in the Chantry Seeker barracks where a slow withdrawal happens, though it is part of proving the Templar's mental fortitude and physical aptness? It sounds horrid in my opinion, like they're trying to get rid of us._

_Hmm – how does Samson "somehow" cope with cravings? Let me guess! Is it alcohol, terrorizing others, making an idiot out of yourself or SOMEHOW all three?_

_Haha, my experiment! My Orlesian accent wasn't very convincing. I don't know how this happened, but it made those idiots flirt with me more. What is with them? Anyway, long story short one of the nicer ones – Alphonse, gave me a short tour of the city while we went apostate hunting. It was romantic in a very stupid way. He bought me some wine and told me we could drink it together sometime, if I wanted. Oh Maker… do people look at me and think 'I bet she's easy'? Is offering wine some cultural difference I'm not getting? Phillipa says I should take up the offer. I don't know. I like it here. I want to have a little fun – but what then? What happens after the fun?_

_It feels like I'm in the Fade, like one day I'll wake up and be back in the Gallows again. I'm making lots of friends here, and it isn't only Alphonse. Phillipa befriended a lady called Evangeline, and there's a bunch of us who chat at meal times, like the good old days. I don't know what to think of them, though._

_Have you had any awkward experiences lately?_

_Your friend,_

_Zoe_

_Dear Zoe,_

_No. If the mail did get lost, I'd kill the messenger who did it._

_I'm sorry about what happened in the tavern. It was an accident, but I'll avoid the place now._

_Shit, is there anything I can do to comfort you about your brother?_

_And I'm not sure the "crazy club" is what you want. Not you, Zoe. Join the Seekers instead. Be above Cullen and Meredith. You'll be good at it. Phillipa too. Just charm Seeker Lambert the way you seduce everybody else – by accident._

_Withdrawal is… I don't know. Maybe you'll have better luck than me. If you want to be a Seeker don't let lyrium hold you back. From what I know, the most important detail is that you don't try do it by yourself. Find a private room to stay in. Rest as much as possible… I don't know how the Seekers chuck Templars off it but Chantry work can't be too tricky? At least you'll have somewhere to stay. Phillipa has the right idea – talk to the Enchanter about it. She's probably better than me to make a smart choice._

_Writing this makes me jealous, Zoe. I pray you find your way. Life without lyrium would be so much easier!_

_I am a little frightened for you too. I don't even know what else to say. You mean a lot to me. Don't be stupid about withdrawal. It's not something to be stupid about._

_I bet your fake Orlesian accent sounds better than a real one._

_They flirt more because you are more than beauty. You have a vibrant soul. It attracts a lot of attention. I'm pleased that at least one of those Orlesians is tolerable. Take his wine, or don't. Think about it. It is your decision. Have your fun. Phillipa probably thinks he's an innocent lad. Only you can decide if he is. You'll never have any fun if you keep stopping yourself, butterfly._

_You are not easy, Zoe. You are a very tricky woman to persuade. But if someone decides they like your soul more than your face, they'll commit themselves to the task._

_If you get this when Alphonse has been dealt with, please don't be shy. Give me as much grotesque detail as you want._

_I have so many awkward experiences my cock ups with you feel like I did something right._

_Sorry this letter is short compared to the last. I am getting by. You don't need to worry, Zoe._

_With friendliness,_

_Samson_

He read it over once, twice, and was pleased. This was a reasonable draft. He put it away like he did with the last, wanting to push it out of his mind as well.

But he couldn't. Zoe was getting further away from him again. So much for probation, it sounded like she wasn't ever coming back. This was where life took her, away from him.

Seeker Zoe… no… Seeker Strom? It sounded disgusting. His butterfly, _his_ Seeker getting mixed up with other men, getting to know Orlesian men… maybe in more intimate ways. She'd definitely mess around with one eventually. How would she do it? Like they had? Did Orleasians approach these matters differently, or was there no difference at all?

She'd wear that Seeker armor well. Above Templars, she could make them do shit that nobody else could. No one would have the right to say no. Powerful, strong Zoe. Kind, weak Zoe. His patient, understanding friend.

Samson was so hard, painfully so.

If he had a chance to meet her again, would she let him kiss her if he asked nicely?

He paused. Faith was asleep. He didn't want to bother her. Slipping his hand down to his hardened cock that demanded release, he thought of Zoe, revelled in the passion, remembered how it felt to be with her. Samson conjured an image of his Miss butterfly, the Seeker butterfly. She was strong, but he was stronger. He'd be powerful too, be more commanding than his Zoe. Take it all away from her. Kiss it better.

She was so much nicer than Faith was… that vibrant, pure, undamaged soul. When they'd done it she'd been soft, never yelling, such a silly, misguided girl. He would take her until she promised to never be silly, listen to his every wish and desire, because Zoe was virtuous, untainted and forgiving. He'd catch the butterfly.

When it was all over and Samson washed his filthy hands, he felt stunned, very confused, and sad. So muddled that he intended to give the letter to Olina and tell her to post it after an even longer time lapse.

_What the fuck has gotten into my head? _

Zoe couldn't be with him. Zoe was only Zoe, his friend. Seeker or Templar, Zoe was simply a girl with too much going for her, and everybody else was figuring that out… people that weren't him, that were where Zoe was, where he wasn't. Kisses or lying around in the covers, the past was the past. Samson was just Samson. She didn't think of him as anything else. Would she if he hadn't been thrown from the Order? Would they have even become friends if it wasn't for Maddox in the first place?

He fell asleep feeling angry.

* * *

Samson wasn't expecting Faith would frighten him again, as the occasional nightmare or flashback was enough, but he dealt with them better now with his old Templar mind training.

It happened suddenly and abruptly, as he was woken from sleep almost as frantically as she did. He heard the thumping of feet and opened his eyes, to not being able to see much at all. She was wandering about in the dark and not being quiet about it.

"Princess?" he asked wearily, not wanting to get out of bed, but the noise was odd. If Faith was going to use any chamber pots, she didn't usually make that much noise. It was the sound one made when running from an enemy. There's a rattling and a scraping, sparks, and one of the lanterns lit up. She nearly tripped from her weak side, but caught herself on the wall.

"Don't talk to me!" she hissed, "They'll hear you."

"Are we being surrounded in a fight?" Samson asked, still caught up in his dream which had involved slicing down demons, a tree and a deranged pigeon.

Faith found the cabinet and opened it, "You're being too loud!" she said, but he noticed she sounded panicked, very unlike herself.

"What are you doing?"

He tried to raise himself onto his elbows. His brain was still foggy from the deep confines of sleep, but it was starting to come back. Faith was in a weird way, and she was more awake than he was.

_Is she sick?_ Samson thought mildly, and as consciousness fully welcomed him he got out of the bed and wandered over just as he heard a cork being lifted.

"Are you drinking the lyrium?" Samson wondered aloud, the willingness to filter his thoughts barely present.

There was a sound Samson didn't like, the one of her chugging a lot of liquid, more of the blue than she was allowed.

"Are you sure you want to be drinking at this hour, princess?" Samson asked, as he reached her.

He said 'drinking' as if she didn't know how to say no to liqueur, but they both knew that wasn't the case. The woman whipped her head around and knocked the lantern on the bench.

"I need to!" she whispered, "I really need to."

Samson stopped in his tracks, alarmed, at the fortitude in Faith's tone. Something wasn't right. Maybe she was hallucinating?

"Faith," he said firmly, "You drink that in the morning, remember? You're hours off."

The woman finished the vial and put it down, picking up another in a frenzy.

"No!" her voice trembled, afraid, truly terrified, "I have to take it. It's the only way. They'll kill me if I don't, and they'll kill you too."

"Hey," Samson could guess what was happening. They referred to the lyrium army. "You're their Queen. Don't let them do this to you. They can't win."

"They can," Faith blubbered, sounding panicked now, "They will. Samson. Run! They're going to kill me!"

The woman's fingers almost slipped on the next vial as she popped it open and binged it down at a terrifying speed. How many more of these was she going to drink? That was _his_ lyrium too! What if she drank so much it did kill her?

"Get the fuck away from it!" Samson blurted out, behaving on impulse. Without hesitation, in a flurry of shadow, he grabbed Faith's arm and pulled it. "Come on. Leave the stash alone."

Faith tried to break free of his grasp and sobbed, "No!"

"Don't make me do this," he said, but he had already started improvising a means to get her away. He kicked her so Faith's knees buckled and used the moment of weakness to put her in an arm lock.

Quite a childlike display followed of Faith kicking and wailing, her hands still on the lyrium, although it was slipping and the blue was dripping down her wrists and onto the floor. She was definitely crying now, her voice wrecked and beyond recognition.

"They're going to kill me! Please! I don't want to die!"

"They'll have to go through me first," Samson growled, pulling her backwards. It seemed in her delusion she was both extremely weak and knew how to kick where it hurt. Still, he kept pulling, glad that he had some semblance of strength left. Soon he had reached the edge of the bed and sat down.

The struggling continued, as did the crying. It was loud and horrible.

"The sooner you stop struggling I can help," Samson demanded.

"Noo…" Faith sobbed, "They kill from the inside, make all my organs rupture, like I'm nothing! Stop making them mad! I don't want to die!"

"How do I not make them mad?" Samson wondered, not sure if he was more confused or angry.

Faith paused for a moment. "They say that when they come, they don't leave until the job is done. And fun. They like to dun dun dun… cut, slash, bang. Dead! Ow, it hurts." She suddenly dropped the vial and it smashed onto the floor, "Ow! I'm dying! It hurts! Samson, let go!"

Shocked more than anything, Samson let go of Faith's wrists, and hurried back to the kitchen to pick up the lantern, bringing it close. Faith curled up in a ball on her side, weeping, clutching her stomach. He used the lantern to examine her. There didn't appear to be anything wrong, but the lyrium could do amazing things. Were they able to kill?

"Faith, the plan," he reminded her, "We can fight them together. Come on."

"It hurts so much, Samson," she sobbed, "I feel so weak. They got me. They're torturing me. Run! They'll get you too!"

"They haven't got me," he assured her.

"Run!" Faith urged him. "Quickly. Run away!"

Samson tried another tactic. "Where does it hurt?"

Faith, her brilliant eyes on him, pointed to her belly. He tugged her armpits.

"Come on, Their Glorious Queen. Get onto the bed. I can protect you better there."

Like a little girl, she obliged easily, stumbling into the bed with difficulty. "First day, we hold an axe and casket tight."

The process was incredibly slow, as she was unable to control her weakness in her bad side, "Second day, we mine and simmer it with heat."

She rolled onto her elbows and moved one arm forward, "Third day, we drink it with mead for the taste." She hoists herself forward, "Fourth day…"

"Over here, Faith," Samson said loudly, trying to talk over her ridiculous rhymes, lifting the lantern to the bedside table.

Faith groaned, flinched with pain again, and sobbed as Samson tried to coax her closer.

"Fifth day, headaches return and the tables do turn. Ow…"

Trying to suppress a sigh, Samson grabbed Faith's legs and gently manoeuvred them so she slid under the bed covers. He wrapped her in them. For a moment, she seems to quieten, but she sobbed still.

"I don't want to die…"

"Neither do I," Samson admitted, and he went under the covers too, "Are they still talking?"

"Quieter…" Faith whispered, "but they watch, always watching."

"Turn to me," Samson coaxed her softly.

The woman, surprisingly, heard him. She rolled over, but onto her back, something she didn't usually do.

"Can I take a look at your belly, Their Glorious Queen?"

"Yes."

Feeling somewhat calmer because Faith wasn't thrashing around like a fool, he ran his fingers under her night dress until he found her belly button, and rested his hand on her stomach. The woman placed her own hands on top of his, from the outside of the fabric. Gradually, as to not startle her, Samson pulled the lantern closer and lifted up her night dress to expose her tummy. It didn't look any different to normal.

"There are no visible wounds, see," Samson said, "It feels the same too."

Faith, frantic, touched her stomach too, "It hurts."

Samson gently brushed her stomach with a few of his fingers, "Tell me if it gets worse." Slowly he brought his fingers up to Faith's ribs, then ran it down her arm, as he did so Faith's sobs settle. She tensed suddenly.

"What's wrong?" Samson asked.

Faith blinked absently at the ceiling for a few seconds. "Wait… what? Did I… what happened?"

"Uh…" Samson replied blankly, trying to figure out how to describe the experience, "you were very convinced the choir was out to kill you."

He didn't want to say it, but part of him had been scared that they would, not being able to understand the limits of their power.

"Urgghh…" Faith groaned, frustrated with herself, "I drank… one vial?"

"One and a half."

"FUCK!"

Samson winced from the sound. "This has happened before?"

"Yes, but not often." Faith sat up, "I'd hoped you'd never have to see. I'm so sorry."

Samson paused. "What happened the other times?"

"Last two I was alone, so I ended up drinking half of my lyrium stores," Faith said grimly, "I drank so much I vomited it back up."

"By the Blight," Samson swore, not able to form into words how terrible this was.

"The other time Ewan stopped me," Faith said, "Samson, it was so good you stopped me."

"I don't know." He felt very uncomfortable at how messed up this was, "Is it still hurting?"

"Just cramps." Faith didn't seem bothered by this, "Don't worry."

"I won't," Samson said, not wanting to think about it. He felt guilty, but it was hard to pin point why. Part of him was afraid that the lyrium would snatch her away. "What if you get like that again?"

Faith took a deep breath. "Just be pleasant. It doesn't usually last for longer than twenty minutes. Or if you are very brave you could try to distract me like we usually do."

She gave him a knowing look.

"Do you know what you're asking?" Samson demanded, shocked.

Forcing on that sort of behaviour without consent was assault. Surely she knew this. Surely she knew she was asking something horrid.

"Yes," she replied, "Within reason, of course, if you're finding it hard to deal with. Worse comes to worse it would only need to be for five minutes."

What the blighted hell did 'within reason' mean? This whole circumstance was already well out of limits of 'reason'.

"You're incredibly certain about that," Samson said darkly.

"I'm guessing," she said, "but it is a very educated guess."

Samson lay back on the pillow, pondering. He couldn't decide if being asked to murder someone or assault them with their blessing was worse. He wouldn't. It was better to wait it out. There was another fact that disturbed him more.

Faith had one episode in the first five years of being out of the Circle, and she'd had two in the previous lot, and now she'd had one more. It was more frequent. Was it going to get even worse?

He recalled Faith mentioning 'slipping' from lyrium when he first met her.

"Is this what you were talking about…" he began, unable to contain his fear, "when you said you 'slip' with lyrium? If it is, your description is out of order. This isn't _only_ SLIPPING!"

He breathed heavily, his words ending very loud, unable to figure out why he was so panicked about it.

Faith glanced at him. She was stolid. "No, that's not what I meant by slipping. That's different. That's like how you are when you have really strong cravings."

Samson couldn't tell if he was relieved or only more concerned.

"I don't think I've ever seen you slip," he realized, bewildered by the revelation, "You take your blue the exact same time every morning, but even when you have a craving you seem in reasonable control of yourself. You only tell me you want me to please you, and you do it without becoming a whinger like I am."

Faith looked ahead at the wall, with a faint hint of determination. "No, you haven't ever seen me slip. Not how I used to. It used to be every month or so, or sometimes more frequent. It depended a lot on how my day went."

This seemed hopeful, but he still didn't understand it. "Did something happen? What made it go away? Can you help me from not slipping?"

The woman appeared suddenly afraid. Then she flushed. "I can't tell you what your triggers are. Only you can figure that out. I haven't asked because I assume you don't know, or you have no desire to talk about it. Identifying a trigger doesn't make cravings go away but it makes waiting them out easier… _enough_… not to slip…. if you can find a way to hold the broken pieces together."

Samson attempted to reflect on what his triggers might be, but Faith was right. He wasn't sure. Cravings seemed to happen at random times.

All he could recognize was the feeling he had that augmented those cravings. "It feels like the world is being ripped apart from beneath me, or someone is holding me under water and there's no way to get out. Struggling makes it worse, but not struggling would also mean I let myself drown."

"My emotions become heavier, only they become so heavy I can't carry them anymore. I don't want to," Faith said. "Or it's like I'm fourteen again and on a cycle, where my feelings explode and combust."

Samson had no means to make sense of the second comparison. Besides the obvious, for the time he had known her Faith didn't get her cycles, so he wasn't sure how she would behave differently anyway.

"What are your triggers?"

Faith frowned. "There are lots of them. If you figure out what yours are, tell me. I might be able to offer some insight."

"Thank you," he paused, and remembered something, "Pretty sure being isolated does it. Or something like that."

Faith appeared curious. "Why do you feel like that?"

Samson tried to recall, and simply considering the emotion made him only want to drink lyrium. Whenever his Templar friends became part of the conversation, he couldn't stand it. The thought of them was sickening. The form that the illness took, he had no idea. It was still too vague to explain. "Dunno."

She was about to roll away from him when Samson grabbed onto her shoulder. The meaning behind why he was upset about this incident surfaced. As sleepy as he was his mind was ringing. She couldn't go to sleep yet.

He acknowledged with dread that Faith wasn't just an addicted, kind of terrible person, but also a walking, breathing bomb.

She was going to die, but not with dignity or when she was ready, not from a predictable cause that everyone could prepare for, not from the natural passing of her soul to the next life. It wasn't like someone nursing an injury and there was time for loved ones to say their goodbyes, where the person can make amends with their choices and have a full understanding of what they were pleased with, and what they would change. There's time to accomplish goals and make something of her time left.

He had no idea how much time was left, but he knew it was probably running out far more rapidly than a regular person.

Maybe Samson had always known this, but it was something different to have the reality framed so clearly in front of him. He sometimes wondered if strokes would finish her off, but it was never the strokes. It was never the stress. The lyrium was going to kill her. It was always the lyrium, it was the voices. The ones that told her beautiful things were not real. The wretched things that claimed to worship her.

The voices of the lyrium were the worst liars in the entire universe.

"Princess," he murmured.

How could he explain his thoughts? The unpredictability deeply distressed him about this, but Faith was acting as though she'd merely tripped over. This state of delirium was something he'd never seen before. He'd only heard about it in textbooks from the Gallows. It was _scary_ that the mind was capable of warping a person's behaviour so much. It was sad that things that weren't actually there could make a person cry.

Samson tried to catch her eye, but she wouldn't look at him. Maybe it was because he wanted her to meet his gaze that it made the hurt so much worse. And it was so hard to push from his conscience what a beautiful person she was, despite her many flaws. It was a crying shame a woman so rich with stories, determination, creativity and lovely smiles was a detonation waiting to happen, "I don't worry about you much, but when I do it is like purgatory," he said. His voice was hushed and uncertain, like this was secret, "You know I worry about you?"

"So what?" Faith said snippily. "I do what I can. You know that."

She was getting defensive. True, the world wasn't fair and for some reason or another she had found herself in this predicament, but that didn't ease his worry.

"What if I'm not around when you get like that again?" Samson pressed, "Yeah, whatever. You got lucky this time. What if I'm out working or something? What if your stomach decides that one day it isn't going to nicely chuck it all back up for you?"

If Faith was scared, she did not show it. She looked determinedly ahead. "What's your point?"

Samson groaned. He wasn't sure how to describe what his point was. It was hard enough to think at this hour, let alone with his mind falling into an abyss.

"Princess…" he groaned, again.

"What?" Faith demanded, "You have a problem?"

_You have a fucking problem!_ He wanted to shout at her, though he remembered how pissed off he got when other people made the same comment to him, so he didn't phrase it like that. He thought instead on how stupid her plan for trying to manage this problem was, and how annoyed he felt that he didn't have any other solutions right now from being too stressed. "You are the most unhinged person I've ever met."

Faith didn't seem offended by this. "Did you not listen to your precious Guard friend when you first heard about me?" she questioned, "You're slower than I thought."

That was not the point. It wasn't fair that she was deflecting absolutely everything, and trying to put it on him for being so 'stupid' and approaching her. Anger pierced him as much as it did her. He only wanted her to have a life free of these lyrium terrors.

_At least I'm not going to die like you,_ Samson pondered saying back, but he was shocked he'd thought something so horrible. Then he realized with dread he couldn't actually claim this to be true. They shared the same eyes. They shared the same struggles. It was a blessing and a curse.

He couldn't leave the conversation like this.

He spooned her, wrapping his fingers over her belly. "Is it still hurting?"

Faith's voice was bitter. "Yes."

He rubbed it. "Even if I do this?"

"Yes."

"Sorry."

She exhaled long and slowly. "Me too."

Perhaps from the heaviness, it was an apology that this had happened at all, or for her snapping at him. Samson tried to calm down. He had an impulse to snort lots of dust, and he'd never hated himself so much for it. He didn't want to turn it into a scene. Hands trembling, almost like they wanted to grab some dust too, he focused on being with her instead. It was so hard to concentrate… he could feel his care for her diminishing as it did. It was a ridiculous, cruel fate to have a craving, for he was reasonably sure, at least in this instance, that the very reason it was there was because he was so stressed about what had just happened… and he _did_ care about her, despite the pulls of his mind telling him that lyrium was all that mattered in the whole world right now.

His mind fragmented by conflicted wants, Samson fought it and got even more tired. He kissed what he could reach of her neck. "I worry about you."

Faith didn't answer for a few moments. She didn't move closer to him or move away, she only remained still.

"Why?" she wondered.

Her voice was empty, like her soul was the same, void and ready to give up… on life itself, or trying to find answers? In that moment she had nothing left but that question, and maybe the answer wouldn't give her the strength to search for some lost part of herself.

Samson paused. He didn't know how to answer that. She knew he couldn't feel emotions like a regular person. It seemed strange of her to ask. He tried to grasp for anything he could think of that sounded suitable for the moment, even if he wasn't certain how to describe what this moment was.

"You're important." He tried to breathe in the smell of her, the lyrium, to calm him down, "you mean a lot to me."

The craving wasn't letting go, but he could wait it out with her. He would only probably fall asleep soon from how mentally draining it was to fight. Faith obviously didn't want to talk about it. Maybe he'd think of some brilliant idea on what to do about this when he was out at work, because that's what always seemed to happen. They couldn't _really_ be stuck, could they?

Like most of his questions, Faith answered after a lengthy pause. When she did, her voice wasn't empty. It was tired, and it was jaded, but it had reprieve and tenderness underneath it, like his words were an anodyne. He hoped it would help her sleep. Even if it was something he wouldn't ever be able to hear or see, he really wanted it to make some sort of difference. She could have her secrets, but he wanted her to be okay. That was what mattered.

"You're important to me too."


End file.
